The Quality of Darkness
by asteroidbuckle
Summary: Drake fights against the demons inside his head. Caution: VERY DARK, so read at your own discretion. Rating is between T and M. COMPLETE!
1. Best Laid Plans

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own _Drake & Josh. _All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** Here I go again - even the title tells you that it's not exactly a happy story! My intention is to alternate between present and past, what's happening now and the things that led up to it. I will even be switching tenses, so I hope it's not too confusing.

* * *

Chapter 1: Best Laid Plans 

"Are you sure you're alright?" Josh asks, concern edging his voice despite the reaction he knows it will elicit in his brother.

Drake rolls his eyes and pastes his characteristic smirk in place. "Yes, Mom," he says sarcastically. He grabs Josh's hand and presses it to his forehead. "Do I feel hot?"

Josh knows Drake is just joking, but he chooses to take him seriously, carefully analyzing the temperature of Drake's skin beneath his palm. "No," he finally says reluctantly. He's not sure why a part of him _wants_ Drake to still be sick; all he knows is that he doesn't want to leave him.

"See?" Drake drops his brother's hand and shifts his weight impatiently. "I'm _fine_," he says. "I don't need you to mother hen me."

Josh knows he should be relieved – this is the first time in almost a week that Drake has been out of bed, dressed, and interactive. He's even shaved for the first time in days. But when Josh looks at his brother, he can't keep the niggling feeling of worry from creeping into the back of his mind. Drake has lost weight and his usually tight clothes have a little extra room in them; dark circles accent his dark eyes, which are currently looking back at Josh with a bemused expression.

"Well, if you're sure…" he says and lets the thought trail off.

"_Go,_" Drake insists, walking past him and over to the desk, where he busies himself shuffling papers. "I've got plans, too, you know."

This piques Josh's interest and he turns to face Drake. "Oh yeah?" This is a good sign, he thinks. He hasn't seen Drake go out anywhere in a long time. "What's her name?" he asks.

Drake turns his head and shoots Josh a look and Josh can see his brother's mouth curve into a small smile. "What makes you think it's a girl?" Drake asks.

Josh laughs, lifts his eyebrows. "Is there something you want to tell me?" he asks jokingly.

But the dynamic in the room suddenly shifts and Josh sees something raw flash in Drake's eyes. It vanishes so quickly, Josh isn't sure he's really seen it. "Nah," Drake says, shrugging it off casually. "Me and Scotty and Devon are gonna go see that new slasher movie." He looks so earnest that Josh forgets all about the look in his brother's eyes a moment ago.

"_Blood Brothers?"_

Drake laughs, a sound like music to Josh's ears. "Yeah. Ironic, huh?"

Josh doesn't have the heart to tell him that it would be more ironic if _he_ and Drake were seeing it together, so he leaves it alone. "Yeah," he says. "Ironic."

"What time are you supposed to pick Sarah up?" Drake asks, the look on his face reflecting what Josh already knows – his "mother hen" routine has made him late.

Josh looks at his watch, his face falling. "In five minutes," he says sheepishly as he looks at Drake, sees the half-smirk on his brother's face.

"It's only your second date, Josh," Drake admonishes.

"I know, I know," Josh says, exasperated. He pats his pockets for his keys, digs them out of his left one.

"Four minutes," Drake reminds him and Josh can tell by his voice that he's enjoying himself.

Josh takes one last look at his brother. The feeling of worry is still there, but he ignores it. Drake looks okay; he's acting okay. Josh opens his mouth to speak.

Drake cuts him off. "Go," he says, pointing to the door.

Pausing, Josh thinks things over one last time. Finally, he nods. "Right. I should go." He turns on his heels and heads for the bedroom door, quickly descending the stairs. When he reaches the front door, he's startled when he hears Drake's voice right behind him.

"Stop and buy her some flowers on the way," he says. "Daisies," he adds, smiling. "Nothing says 'please forgive me for being late' like daisies."

Josh turns, focuses his eyes on Drake, who's standing in the doorway to the stairs with his arms crossed over his chest, smiling. "Daisies, huh?" He's now officially very late, but still he lingers, unable to leave.

"Trust me," Drake says.

A sudden pang of worry seizes Josh again and he tilts his head, asks again softly, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Josh." The note of aggravation in Drake's voice is balanced by a note of affection.

"Okay, okay," Josh says, surrendering. He turns once again to go. His hand is on the doorknob when the urge to say just one more thing overtakes him. "Call me if you need anything," he says pointedly.

Josh is surprised when Drake _doesn't_ roll his eyes. Instead, his brother just looks at him unblinking and says, "Goodbye, Josh."

"Yeah," Josh responds. "See ya."

When the door closes behind Josh, Drake lets out his breath. _Finally._ He stares at the closed door for a few seconds, then walks over to it and slides the deadbolt into place. Turning from the door, he stares into the living room, closing his eyes to listen to the silence around him. His mom and Walter are in San Francisco on a long weekend, Megan's spending the weekend at a friend's. He has the house to himself.

The relief at finally being alone almost overwhelms him and he takes in a long, deep breath, lets it out slowly. For the past week, he's felt like he's been living in a fishbowl with the rest of the world pressing their faces against the glass, watching his every move. When he inhaled, they inhaled. When he blinked, they blinked.

_What's wrong with Drake?_ they all wanted to know.

"Nothing," he answers them, his voice carrying into the empty room. "Not anymore."

He turns to his left and walks into the kitchen, his stomach growling for the first time in weeks. The sensation brings a smile to his face – he's ravenous and the feeling makes him giddy. He opens the refrigerator and stares into it, his dark eyes scanning the contents. Settling on a bowl of tuna casserole, he reaches for it, pulling it out and letting the refrigerator door close on its own with a soft sound. He grabs a fork and peels back the plastic wrap, stabbing a forkful and putting it into his mouth. He thinks for a moment that it's the best thing he's ever tasted in his life and the thought brings instant, hot tears to his eyes. Chewing deliberately, he forces himself to swallow, then blinks away the moisture in his eyes as he replaces the plastic wrap and puts the rest away. He drops the fork in the sink like always and starts to walk away, then suddenly turns and washes it, placing it carefully in the strainer.

He doesn't want to leave a mess.

Flipping off the light as he pushes through the swinging door into the living room, he makes his way to the end table by the couch, leaning down and clicking off the lamp. He's in shadow and he realizes that he has been for a long time now, really. He smiles at the symbolism but it's brittle and soon crumbles away.

There are two more lights to take care of in the living room and he quickly extinguishes them, leaving only the light in the foyer. He steps up into the foyer and heads for the stairs, his fingers lingering on the light switch. With one last look over his shoulder, he flips the switch, plunging the entire downstairs into darkness. Only the porch light remains on, casting an elongated pattern through the glass onto the wood floor.

He climbs the stairs slowly and when he reaches the top, flips off that light as well. He turns off the hall light on his way into his room. He stands on the platform and looks around, a sigh escaping his lips. Josh's part of the room is right in front of him, neat as a pin – his bed is made, his pajamas are folded and put away under his pillow, his clothes are hung up, his shoes are matched and in alignment with one another. Josh's side of the room is a reflection of him – organized and well thought out.

Drake focuses his eyes on his part of the room and thinks that it, too, is a reflection of its occupant – chaotic and in disarray. Jumbled and disordered. But that's not how it is anymore. He's focused now. For the first time in a long time he feels in control of his life. He has a plan and he knows what he needs to do.

So he walks to his side of the room and starts to tidy it up. He makes his bed, smoothing the covers with his hands, fluffing his pillows. He puts the dirty clothes in the basket, folds and puts away the clean ones. He pairs up his shoes and lines them up on the floor at the foot of the loft bed. He collects all the empty soda cans and candy wrappers and puts them in the trash.

When he's done, he stands back and surveys his work. It's the neatest it's ever been and he's proud of himself. After all, he doesn't want to leave a mess – a mess would mean that he didn't think it through. And he _has_ thought it through. To the end.

He doesn't know how much time has passed – he doesn't want to look at the clock – but when he looks out the window, he can see that it's completely dark.

It's time, he decides, and the realization calms him. A surreal feeling of serenity washes over him and he can feel the corners of his mouth lifting in a tiny smile. He takes off his shoes and places them next to the others in the line on the floor. He turns to the desk and pulls out the upper left-hand drawer, feels inside towards the back, secures his fingers around what he is looking for – he knows it's there because he put it there himself a week ago. He pulls it out and closes the drawer, walking over to Josh's side of the room. Climbing up, he sits on the edge of Josh's bed and stares into the dark hallway, the utility knife heavy and solid in his hand.

He holds it in his right hand, the back of his hand resting on his knee, his thumb pushing the slider along its side up and down, up and down. He slides the blade out and looks down at it – its dull gray surface dully reflects the light, but when he turns it slightly, the polished edge of the razor blade glints brightly. It's a new blade; he opened the knife with a Phillips-head screwdriver and replaced the blade himself after he took it from Walter's toolbox a week ago.

Josh's mattress is soft, he realizes, as he shifts his weight on the bed. He wonders briefly if his brother will be able to sleep in this room after tonight. He's not sure he'd be able to if the tables were turned. He thinks about leaving Josh a note, has thought about it all week, but again decides against it. What would he say? _Dear Josh, I'm sorry. But if you lived inside my head, you'd want to die, too_ just doesn't seem like enough.

He slides the blade back down into the utility knife and stands up, turning to smooth the covers carefully back over Josh's bed. He wants to leave everything as it was.

Turning off the light on his way out, he walks down the dark hallway to the bathroom, his fingers finding the light switch and flipping it on. He blinks against the sudden brightness as he steps inside and closes the door behind him, turning the lock on the doorknob.

He sets the utility knife on the counter next to the sink and stares at his reflection in the mirror. He _does_ look sick, he realizes. No wonder everyone's been hovering around him like nursemaids. Everyone except Megan, who has shown her concern by not pulling any pranks on him.

He touches his face, his fingertips brushing across the freckles that stand in stark contrast to his pale skin, then over the dark circles that shadow his eyes. When he pulls his fingers away, he realizes they're wet.

_No,_ he tells himself as he wipes the tears away fiercely. _No._

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, bringing his focus back. He cannot falter now, not when he is so close to achieving the peace he wants more than anything. That's what this is all about, after all – quieting the demons that live inside his head.

He squeezes his right forefinger and thumb into the little change pocket on his right hip, pulling out a tiny orange tablet and dropping it into his left palm. He repeats the action three more times until the four pills he stashed there earlier that evening rest side-by-side in his palm. He looks down at them, lining them up with the tip of his right index finger, then shaking his left hand to scatter them again, the tiny pills clicking softly against each other.

He has been taking them for a week – one a day for the last five days. He hopes it is enough. He's been siphoning them from Walter's Coumadin prescription – a medication used to keep the blood from clotting. Walter takes them to help him live; Drake is taking them to help him die.

The irony, this time, is completely lost on Drake.

Drake watches in the mirror as he presses his left palm to his open mouth, feels the pills land softly on his tongue. He takes his hand away and presses his lips together, tasting the bitterness as the pills start to dissolve. Finally, he turns on the water and bends his head to the faucet, cupping water to his mouth and swallowing the pills down. He finishes the action by splashing water over his face, then stands up and stares into the mirror again, watching as the water drips unimpeded down his face and soaks into the collar of his t-shirt.

After a minute, he walks over to the shower and turns it on, adjusting the temperature until it is as hot as he can stand it. Then he begins to undress. He takes off his socks and lays them on the back of the toilet. Then he peels off his shirt, folding it neatly and placing it on the counter. He takes off his jeans, stepping out of them as the steam starts to build up around him. He folds those neatly as well, placing them on the toilet lid and stacking the shirt and socks on top of them. Finally, he removes his boxers, folding them in half and laying them on top of the stack.

He turns back towards the mirror, watching as his reflection begins to disappear behind a thin veneer of condensation, closing his eyes and breathing in the steam in long, slow lungfuls. When he opens his eyes again, the mirror is completely steamed over.

Taking the utility knife in his hand, he pushes open the curtain and steps into the shower, the hot water stinging his skin. He stands under the stream, letting his body adjust, pushing his face into the water, the sound loud in his ears.

He stands there until he can see the veins in his wrists stand out prominently against his skin. Then he lowers himself to the bottom of the tub and leans back against the cool tile, drawing his knees up. He slides the blade of the knife out as far as it will go. He rests the back of his left wrist against his knee and lets his hand relax, the fingers curled slightly.

He lifts the blade to his wrist, placing it carefully against the protruding vein. "Forgive me," he whispers as he presses the blade into his skin, drawing it slowly down the length of his vein. He doesn't feel any pain, and has only one regret – that Josh will be the one to find him. He watches, detached, as the first drops of dark red blood appear, spilling down his arm. He stares in silence as the blood gets washed away, follows the thin red ribbon with his weary eyes as it disappears down the drain.

He's glad; he doesn't want to leave a mess, after all.

* * *

_To be continued..._

_I'm a little hesitant about this one considering the subject matter, so please let me know what you think. Be honest, but don't be mean! Please review; thanks!_


	2. The Beginning

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own _Drake & Josh. _All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** Please remember, my intention with this story is to alternate between present and past. "Present" chapters will be written in normal text and in the present tense. "Past" chapters will be written in italics and in the past tense. Obviously, this is a "past" chapter.

* * *

_Chapter 2: The Beginning_

_Drake was awake, but he was resolutely keeping his eyes closed, in denial that it was Monday morning already. The weekend had flown by, as was its habit, and now it was time to start another tedious week at school. He could hear Josh moving around the room, trying to stay quiet while at the same time trying to rouse Drake. Drake had to bury his face in his pillow to hide his smile._

_Finally, Drake felt something soft hit his face with quite a bit of force. Propping himself up on his right elbow, he quickly discovered the identity of the projectile – a pillow from the sofa. He grasped the offensive object in his left hand and threw it back at his brother, who was standing by the sofa with an amused smirk on his face. _

_Josh ducked the pillow easily and crossed his arms over his chest as he said, "Your fake sleeping routine is getting a little old."_

_Drake flashed his brother a crooked smile. "Yeah, but it's a classic." He threw off the covers and swung his legs around, standing up and lithely stepping off the loft and onto the arm of the couch, then onto the floor in front of Josh. Yawning, he stretched luxuriously, ending the motion by scratching the crescent of belly that peeked out from beneath his t-shirt._

"_I'm leaving in ten minutes, Drake," Josh told him as he sat on the couch to put on his shoes._

"_Yeah, yeah," Drake replied, the words barely discernible through another yawn. "I'll be ready in five." He stepped over Josh as he made his way to the door._

"_Hmph," Josh grunted. "You preen more than any girl I know."_

"_Don't hate me because I'm beautiful," Drake quipped over his shoulder as he headed towards the bathroom._

_Six minutes later, Drake sauntered into the kitchen, a ready smile on his face. He was dressed and ready to go, his backpack slung casually over his shoulder. "Good morning," he said lightly as he walked straight to the refrigerator and ducked his head inside, emerging a moment later with the milk._

_Josh held up his wrist, looked dramatically at his watch. "You're late," he announced, his brown eyes twinkling._

_Drake smirked, then tilted the carton to his lips. "Your watch must be fast."_

"_You suck," Josh said, standing up from the table and placing his cereal bowl in the sink._

"_You love me," Drake countered, putting the milk back in the refrigerator and wiping off his milk mustache._

_Josh rolled his eyes. "Come on, we're gonna be late."_

"_God forbid," Drake teased, but followed his brother out the door obediently._

* * *

_It was second period. Drake sat slumped in his desk in the next to last row in Mr. Bradford's American History class. History wasn't interesting when he was awake and it was even less so at 8:30 on a Monday morning. Stifling a yawn, Drake opened his eyes wide and shook his head once to keep himself awake._

"…_Mr. Parker?"_

_Upon hearing his name, he sat up, focusing his eyes on Mr. Bradford, whose light blue eyes were looking back at him expectantly. "Huh?" A few scattered chuckles dotted the classroom._

_Mr. Bradford, propped against the edge of his desk, crossed his arms over his chest. "I asked if we were keeping you up, Mr. Parker."_

"_Uh," Drake answered dumbly, picking up his pen. "No, sir." He hunched over his notebook, the page empty except for a few doodles in the corners – one of a flaming guitar, one of a giant hamburger eating Mr. Bradford._

"_Well, in that case," Mr. Bradford said, standing up and walking around the desk to the whiteboard, "please tell the class the name of the general in command of the Continental Army's artillery."_

_Drake just stared at him, his mind a blank. He was caught and Mr. Bradford, in all his malicious wisdom, knew it. "Uh…" Drake said again, his mind swirling to find a name, any name. "Patton?" he ventured, grimacing._

_Laughter erupted around the classroom. Mr. Bradford quieted it with a wave of his hand. "I'm afraid, Mr. Parker," he said evenly, "that you're about 170 years too late with that answer."_

"_Oh," Drake replied sheepishly, looking down at his notebook._

"'_Oh,' indeed," the teacher said, then finally turned his attention away from Drake._

_Slumping back in his chair in relief, Drake once again tuned him out. _Mr. Parker._ Just the way he said it irritated Drake. The school year wasn't even two months old and already one of his teachers hated him. There was already Mrs. Hayfer, of course, but he had learned to accept that a long time ago. Now, Mr. Bradford seemed to take special pleasure in making Drake squirm as well._

_Drake could ill afford to fail this class; it was his senior year and he was determined to graduate. Besides, he couldn't count on any more dance contests to bail him out of a scholastic jam this year. There was no way he was repeating twelfth grade._

_The bell roused Drake from his reverie. He closed his book and slipped it and his notebook into his backpack, standing up and filing down the aisle towards the door. Just as he was passing Mr. Bradford's desk, the teacher said his name._

"_Mr. Parker."_

_The sound made Drake grit his teeth. Turning, he faced Mr. Bradford. "Yes, sir?" he asked as politely as he could muster._

"_I'd like to talk to you about your performance a few minutes ago," the man said._

_Drake shuffled his feet. "Yeah, about that…" he began._

"_It's becoming a habit." Mr. Bradford leaned against his desk again, crossed his arms._

"_Look, Mr. Bradford," Drake said, casting a quick glance towards the door. The halls were quickly clearing; he was going to be late for math if he didn't hurry. "Can we talk about this later? I've got algebra and Mr. Johnson hates it when we're late."_

"_I'll write you a pass," Mr. Bradford said simply. He motioned to a desk in the front row. "Please have a seat."_

_Drake's shoulders visibly slumped, but he complied, sinking heavily into a desk and setting his book bag on top of it. He lifted his eyes to meet Mr. Bradford's. "Look, I'm sorry about this morning, Mr. Bradford. I –"_

_But Mr. Bradford lifted a hand to stop him. "Let me ask you something, Mr. Parker."_

"_Okay." Drake's fingers fiddled absently with one of the zippers on his backpack._

"_You're a popular kid, right?"_

_Drake didn't respond right away; he was taken aback by the question._

_Mr. Bradford noticed Drake's hesitation. He smiled slightly. "I'm new to this school. I don't know who's who yet. Humor me; answer the question."_

"_Yeah," Drake said, a little uncertainly. "I guess so."_

"_I'd be willing to wager that you've basically cruised through school on charm and personality," Mr. Bradford stated matter-of-factly, adding, "and a little luck."_

_Drake squirmed uneasily in his desk. He was irritated that this teacher who only saw him for 50 minutes a day on school days had him pegged. "What's your point?" he asked, more harshly than he intended._

_Mr. Bradford just looked at him in silence for a long moment. "My point, Mr. Parker," he finally said, "is that your cool routine is not going to work with me. If you pass my class, it's because you've earned it."_

"_Yes, sir," Drake muttered, not making eye contact._

_Another moment of silence passed before Mr. Bradford stood up. Walking behind his desk, he opened the lap drawer and pulled out a small pad of pink paper, scribbling on it like a waiter taking a drink order. Signing it with a flourish, he tore off the top sheet and held it out to Drake. "Your pass, Mr. Parker. As promised."_

_Drake slid out of the desk and stood up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He reached out and took the slip of paper from his teacher. "Thanks." He headed for the door._

"_One more thing," Mr. Bradford said and Drake turned to look at him. "I'm not a complete monster, you know. I _want_ to see my students succeed, believe it or not." He smiled at his own attempt at a joke. "That's why I'm going to help you."_

"_Yeah? How?" Drake asked skeptically. He was already pretty sure he wasn't going to like the answer._

"_By tutoring you. After school." He paused for effect. "Starting this afternoon."_

_Drake automatically opened his mouth to protest, but the look of finality on Mr. Bradford's face made him keep quiet. Instead, he nodded his head sullenly. "Yes, sir."_

"_Good. You better get going now. I'll see you later." Mr. Bradford smiled sincerely._

"_Yeah," Drake said as he walked into the now-empty hallway towards Mr. Johnson's algebra class, clutching his pink pass just as the late bell rang._

* * *

_Josh looked up from his Physics book at the sound of a lunch tray being dropped with a heavy thud onto the table in front of him. A small cup of chocolate pudding fell onto the table, landing on its side._

"_Who peed in _your_ punch?" he asked his brother, who slumped down onto the bench with a sigh. Josh grinned widely; he'd been waiting forever to use that line._

_Drake gave him an odd look, which quickly turned sullen. "Mr. Bradford," he answered, righting the pudding cup and picking up the small carton of chocolate milk, giving it a good shake._

"_What did you do this time?" Josh asked, suppressing a smirk._

_Drake stopped shaking the milk as his face took on an offended look. "Why do you automatically think it's my fault?"_

"_Because your ability to aggravate teachers is as legendary as your supposed savant-like kissing skills," Josh replied, a bit distastefully._

"'_Savant-like'," Drake said softly, thinking it over, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. "That's good, right?" he finally asked, leaning in a little._

_Josh just shook his head. "So tell me," he said, picking up their previous thread of conversation, "what did you do to Mr. Bradford?"_

_Drake shrugged. He started shaking the milk again, this time with more force as his irritation built. "Nothing," he insisted. "He just hates me."_

_Josh just looked at him, one eyebrow lifted. "I think it's completely mixed now," he said glibly._

_Confusion darkened Drake's expression for a brief moment. Then he carefully set the milk down on the table and opened it, hiding his chagrin behind the carton as he tilted it to his lips. He took a long drink and set the carton down, looking across the table at his brother. "What?" he asked, when Josh continued to stare at him._

"_So I guess that makes Mr. Bradford vice president of the 'I Hate Drake Parker' club." Josh was obviously enjoying himself._

_Drake pulled a face. "Funny." He tore open the plastic package that contained his napkin and spork, pulled out the spork, then peeled back the top of the pudding cup, scooping out a big spoonful of pudding. He held it in midair between them. "It's not fair," he said, shoveling the pudding into his mouth. "Just because I didn't know the name of some stupid general," he added through a mouthful of pudding._

"_So, what?" Josh asked. "He gave you detention?"_

_Drake shook his head. "Worse," he said, spooning more pudding into his mouth._

_Josh looked confused. "What's worse than detention?"_

_Drake looked at his brother mournfully. "He's gonna tutor me."_

_As the implication of what Drake was saying slowly sunk in, Josh started to smile. "You're right," he finally said. "For you, that _is_ worse."_

"_Yeah," Drake replied as he scraped the sides of the pudding cup with his spork, trying to get the last bit of pudding. He placed the utensil in his mouth, pulling it across his tongue and out of his mouth upside-down. "At least in detention, I can just sit there. Now he's gonna expect me to _participate._" He said that last word like it had a bad taste._

"_Oh, the horror," Josh quipped. "But look at the bright side," he continued, grinning. "At least now you'll know the name of that general." He looked at his watch – lunch was almost over. He started gathering up his stuff._

_Smirking, Drake dropped his empty pudding cup onto the tray along with his spork and started to stand. "Whoopty-do," he muttered under his breath. He picked up his tray and followed Josh to the trash bins._

"_Henry Knox," he said suddenly, after dropping his tray in the trash._

_Josh cast him a look over his shoulder. "Huh?"_

"_That's the general," Drake replied. "I looked it up."_

"_Wasn't he the guy in charge of the Continental Army's artillery?" Josh asked._

_Drake gave his brother a dark look. "Shut up."_

_Josh just smiled._

* * *

_Mr. Bradford was young. Well, young-_ish,_ Drake thought as he watched the teacher draw a timeline on the whiteboard – early thirties, he'd guess. He had roguish blond hair and blue eyes and had a penchant for golf shirts and khaki-colored Dockers. Drake thought he was trying to strike a balance between cool and authoritative but hadn't quite achieved either one._

"_Mr. Parker," Mr. Bradford said suddenly, turning from the board to face Drake, surprising him. "Tell me something. Why do you think it's important to study history?"_

_He knew he shouldn't say the first thing that came to his mind, but he couldn't help it. "I don't," he answered, shuffling his feet across the floor. He hated sitting in the front row, even in an empty classroom._

"_Well," Mr. Bradford said, a tiny smile surfacing, "why don't we see if we can change that." He stood up straight and Drake could tell that he was about to say something that he, at least, thought was profound. _

"_In order to better understand ourselves, we must first understand our past," he said._

_Drake could not suppress the involuntary eye roll that followed that statement._

_Mr. Bradford laughed out loud, clicking the cap on the blue dry erase marker and setting it down on the tray along the bottom edge of the whiteboard. "I couldn't agree more, Mr. Parker," he said casually. "Not that I don't believe it to be true," he continued. "It's just that saying it out loud like that – it _does_ sound dumb."_

"_Kinda," Drake said, shrugging one shoulder._

"_Okay," Mr. Bradford said. "How about this, then? Right here, right now, history is important because you need it to be. You need this class to graduate, am I right?"_

"_Yeah," Drake said reluctantly._

"_Then let's just focus on that, okay? You just keep your eye on the prize – your diploma – and I promise to do my best to make it as painless as possible." He raised his eyebrows in a silent question as he looked at Drake. "Deal?"_

_Drake deliberated for a moment, then shrugged. "For how long are we talkin'?" he asked cannily. _

_Mr. Bradford smiled. "Let's start with twice a week for a month. Then we'll evaluate your progress and go from there." He paused, studying the expression of the young man in front of him. "Fair enough?"_

Do I have a choice?_ Drake thought, but didn't say it. "I guess," he said instead._

"_I choose to take that as a resounding 'yes'," Mr. Bradford said, chuckling as he bent to gather up his papers._

_Drake looked at the clock – almost an hour had passed since school had ended. He shifted restlessly in his seat. "All this learning has been great and all," he said, "but I should really be getting home." He patted his backpack meaningfully and suddenly wished there was more in it. "I've got _lots_ of homework to do, you know."_

_Mr. Bradford gave him an amused look. "I have no doubt, Mr. Parker," he said lightly. "Including mine, I hope."_

"_Yours is first on the list, sir," Drake said earnestly._

"_Then I guess I should let you get to it," the teacher said. "You may go."_

_Drake grabbed his bag and swung it over his shoulder as he stood up. "See you later, Mr. Bradford." He headed for the door._

"_So long, Mr. Parker," he heard the teacher say as he walked quickly down the empty hallway towards the exit._

_Ten minutes later, Drake was standing on the curb in front of the school, cell phone pressed to his ear. He was trying for the third time to reach Josh, but was only getting voicemail. When he heard the words, "Hey, this is Josh…" he pressed the END button and started dialing their home number. A voice from behind startled him._

"_Waiting on your ride, Mr. Parker?"_

_Drake turned. Mr. Bradford stood a couple feet behind him, a tattered red messenger bag slung crosswise over his chest, resting just below his right hip. He had placed an old Padres hat on his head, his blond hair curling up around the bottom. Drake got the sudden feeling that he had been standing there for a while, but pushed the thought away._

"_I'm trying to reach my brother, but he's not answering his phone," he replied evenly._

_Mr. Bradford looked at him for a long moment in silence, like he was debating something. Finally, he said, "I could give you a ride home." He shrugged, pasting a conspiratorial grin on his face. "It's probably against the rules," he added, his voice lowering to an almost-whisper, "but I won't tell anyone if you don't."_

"_Uh, that's okay," Drake said. "I can just…"_

"_Where do you live?" Mr. Bradford asked suddenly, interrupting him._

_The question caught Drake off-guard and before he could stop himself, he gave the man his address._

"_I have an appointment near there. I could drop you on the way."_

"_Well…" Drake said, a little warily._

"_It's no trouble. Really," Mr. Bradford insisted. He looked at the sky. "Besides, it looks like it might rain."_

_Drake followed his gaze upwards; dark clouds were gathering in the west – another late summer storm coming off the Pacific. "Well, I guess it would be alright," he said, shaking off a slight feeling of unease that crept up his spine. "Thanks."_

"_Sure," Mr. Bradford said, pointing in the direction of the teacher's parking lot. "I'm parked just over there."_

_When Drake settled into the passenger's seat of Mr. Bradford's dark blue Chevy Suburban and closed the door securely, he had no way of knowing that his life had just changed forever.

* * *

_

Reviews are like oxygen...vital to life. (Okay, so not _really._ But they're still nice!) Thanks.


	3. A Prayer for the Dying

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own _Drake & Josh. _All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** This was a tough one for me. I hope the dynamic feels right.

* * *

Chapter 3: A Prayer for the Dying

The rhythmic sound of the wipers clearing the rain from the windshield provides the tempo for an extemporaneous melody that Josh hums inside the empty car, his fingers tapping the steering wheel absently. He's in a good mood – well, in a better mood than he was when he left the house a little over two hours ago, at least. His date had gone well and the kiss that Sarah allowed him to give her buoyed his spirits dramatically.

It had been her idea to end the date early; she had noticed that Josh seemed distracted all night. When he explained to her that he was worried about his brother, she had declared him to be "the sweetest boy in the whole world." He suspects that it was for this reason that she had allowed him to kiss her.

Still riding high on the positive ending to a date that had begun shakily, he pulls the car that he shares with Drake into the driveway, pulling all the way up to the garage door. His eyes automatically look up at the window over the garage – it's dark. He looks at the clock on the dash – it's only 9:38pm. Drake must not be home yet.

He turns off the car and closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof. He's always liked the rain, ever since he was kid. He likes to imagine that everything bad gets washed away and that the world is left clean.

_Dork._ The word pops into his head, spoken in Drake's voice.

Josh opens his eyes, smiling. His brother's right; he _is_ a dork. He laughs into the empty car. He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and flips it open. In a flash he's texting a message to Drake – "u were right. daisies wrkd! home now. c u l8r. hows the movie?" He sends the message with a push of a button, then flips the phone closed. The rain has let up a little, he notices, as he looks out the windshield towards the front door. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he pulls the key from the ignition and opens the driver's door. He's pelted by rain as he slams the door shut and jogs up the front walk to the front door.

The horn beeps briefly when he presses the LOCK button on the remote and he can see the hazard lights flash twice out of the corner of his eye. He knows it's locked, but still he does what he always does – he presses it again just to make sure. Again, the horn beeps, the lights flash.

He's a little surprised to find _all_ the lights off when he opens the front door; Drake's not generally big on turning off the lights when he leaves. Josh walks into the house and closes the door behind him, reaching for the light switch and flipping it on as he walks towards the living room.

It's odd, he thinks. The house is so _quiet_; the only sound is the rain outside. There's usually something making a din in the background – the television, the stereo, Drake's guitar, Mom and Dad talking, Megan chattering to one of her friends on the phone.

Then he hears it – a chirping noise, almost like one of those electronic pets that Megan was babysitting for one of her friends last summer. He looks in the direction of the sound, sees a faint glow from the coffee table. It's Drake's cell phone, he realizes, and goes to pick it up, a strange feeling of apprehension clawing at the back of his mind. He opens it, sees the alert for a new text message. Opening the message box, he sees his message at the top of the list, waiting to be read. There are at least two dozen others below it, all unread, the earliest one dated over a week ago. He quickly checks Drake's voicemail box, curiosity and a looming sense of worry driving his actions. He punches in Drake's passcode, "5472" – the date of birth of Zero Gravity's lead guitarist – and is told that Drake has 28 new messages.

Josh presses END with his thumb and realizes that he's been holding his breath, lets it out in a rush and feels his blood pounding in his ears. Something…something's not _right;_ he can feel it. Drake never leaves his messages unchecked for so long and he never _ever _leaves the house without his phone.

He's suddenly aware that his hands are shaking and he grasps his brother's phone tightly in a white-knuckle grip, turning towards the stairs. "Drake?" he calls, but his voice isn't as loud as he wants it to be, sudden panic that he can't seem to rationalize blocking his throat.

He heads for the stairs, feeling along the wall for the railing, forgetting about the light switch as he starts to ascend. He gets the odd feeling that he's suddenly trapped in some sort of horror movie – the kind where the main character is running down a dark hallway towards a door, but the harder they run, the farther away the door gets.

Finally, he reaches the top and stumbles over the last step, catching himself before he falls to the floor. The darkened hallway is very dimly lit and as Josh walks further into the upstairs hallway, he can see the light coming from around the bathroom door. When he takes another step, he can hear the shower running.

He almost cries out in relief._ Idiot,_ he admonishes himself. _He's just in the shower._

"Hey Drake!" he calls, walking to the door and knocking on it. "You won't _believe_ what I was just thinking." He laughs, but it sounds shrill, even to him.

There isn't a response from the other side of the door. He knocks again, louder this time. "Hey Drake!" he yells again. "You drown in there or what?" But something inside him unravels at the hollow sound of running water.

He tries the door; it's locked. "Drake!" He turns the knob again – nothing. "Drake!" His mind automatically starts formulating a logical explanation, something to push away the growing panic that is seeping into his skin. _Maybe he's got water in his ears and can't hear me calling him. Maybe he's just ignoring me; it wouldn't be the first time._

_Maybe he's fallen and hit his head._ This last thought prompts him into action and he fumbles in his pocket for his wallet, pulls it out, dropping Drake's phone on the floor beside him as he kneels in front of the doorknob. Working in the faint light, he slides one edge of his gas card into the groove on the outside of the door lock and turns it slowly, hearing the mechanism unlock on the inside. He slides the card back into his wallet, puts the wallet back in his pocket as he stands.

He can picture Drake in his mind, standing casually on the other side of the door in a towel, his wet hair sticking up in a hundred different directions, grinning at his reflection. "Dude, haven't you heard of knocking?" he can hear him say, his voice tinged with suppressed laughter.

But when Josh opens the door, all he sees is empty air and Drake's clothes stacked neatly on the toilet.

"Drake?" he asks. "This isn't funny. Say something." He can't put his finger on what's missing until he looks to his left into the mirror. Water droplets hang heavily from the bottom edge and Josh follows one with his eyes as gravity overtakes it and it falls to join others in a puddle behind the sink. _There's no steam._

"This isn't funny," he says again. "If this is some kind of joke, I'm gonna k–" But he can't finish the thought, the word catching in his throat, choking him.

The sound of something hard sliding along the bottom of the tub startles him and he looks towards the shower, walks to it. He watches his hand reach for the edge of the shower curtain and pull it back, his mind oddly detached from his body, like a balloon on a string.

He sees his brother there, pale and unmoving, his legs drawn up towards his chest, knees resting against the side of the tub. His eyes are closed, dark lashes stark against his cheeks. His arms have fallen to his sides and from Josh's vantage point, he can't see his wrists, can't yet see what – deep down – he already knows.

He hears the sound again – something hard sliding against the tub – and his eyes are drawn to it. It's caught on Drake's left foot and the current of water finally frees it, carrying it towards the drain, where it comes to rest, knocking against the back of the tub with every swirl of the water.

It's a utility knife, its blade pushed all the way out.

His mind suddenly slams back into his body and he screams, although he can't be sure it's out loud. He's all motion now; conscious thought has abandoned him. The only function of his brain now is to direct the movement of his limbs.

He jumps into the tub, the cold water soaking him through his clothes, and he's mumbling over and over again, "No, no, no…" But he doesn't notice any of it. His hands touch Drake's face – the skin is cold beneath his fingers and an unearthly sound bubbles involuntarily up from his throat.

He presses two fingers to Drake's neck, searches for a pulse. When he can't find one there, he grabs Drake's left wrist in his right hand, presses two fingers against the skin and realizes it's torn. He stares incredulously at the gashes there, long and jagged, following the meandering routes of veins. They're a dark purple color and as clearly defined as if they had been drawn there.

He can't take his eyes away, knows without looking that there are others just like them on Drake's other wrist. He's on his knees, Drake's legs between them, the water continuing to pelt his back unnoticed. He's shivering, but whether it's because of the water or the icy tendrils of fear that are gripping him, he doesn't know.

He cradles his brother's battered wrist in his right palm, presses the first two fingers of his left hand once again against the pulse point in his neck – "Be sure not to use your thumb, or you may confuse your pulse for theirs," he remembers the CPR instructor saying – and closes his eyes.

"Please," he whispers and the sound is a broken one.

His eyes fly open when he feels a throb under his fingertips. His eyes are wide and he takes his hand away, tries again, this time carefully tucking his thumb away so as to eliminate any confusion.

He looks down, his eyes focused on the jagged cuts on Drake's wrist when he feels another throb beneath his fingers. It's faint and slow, but it's there. A few drops of blood seep from Drake's wrist and fall into Josh's hand.

Holding his breath, he waits for another heartbeat, watches as a few more drops of blood fall from Drake's wounds and joins the others in his palm. Blood doesn't pump without help, he thinks. Drake's heart is still beating.

The realization energizes him. He needs to call for help. The nearest phone is in their bedroom, but he doesn't want to leave Drake. He remembers his cell phone and digs in his pocket for it, but it's waterlogged and doesn't work.

Drake's phone! He had it; where'd he put it? He spies it where he left it, on the floor outside the bathroom. It seems like a mile away now.

He jumps from the tub, banging his right knee hard on the edge, but he barely notices as he scrambles across the tile. He reaches for the phone, flips it open, dials 9-1-1, all in less than two seconds.

"9-1-1. Please state your emergency," the calm, professional voice of the dispatcher says through the phone.

"Please," Josh says, his voice cracking. It's the only thing he can think to say. He can't take his eyes off his brother.

"Sir, you need to tell me what's wrong."

"My brother," he says, as a puddle forms on the floor beneath him. "Please help him." His voice is nearly a whisper now.

* * *

He's supposed to stay on the line with the dispatcher until the ambulance arrives, but the connection is lost and he doesn't call back; he's too preoccupied with Drake. He turns off the shower and climbs back into the tub, sitting on his knees. His right knee screams at him, but he ignores it. Tearing the bath towel from the rack, he wraps it tightly around Drake's right wrist. Grabbing the hand towel, he wraps it tightly around his left one.

Then he gently maneuvers his brother until he can situate himself behind him, settling against the back wall of the shower. He holds Drake securely between his legs, Drake's body pressed against his own, his head resting heavily against his right shoulder. "You're gonna be okay," he whispers as he pushes Drake's wet hair off his forehead. He draws up his knees on either side of Drake, folds his brother's arms across his chest and holds them there with his left arm. He snakes his right arm underneath Drake's, pressing his hand over his brother's heart, ignoring the coldness of his skin. It suddenly strikes him just how small his brother is. Drake's always been so larger-than-life; but now, like this, he seems so fragile. He closes his arms tighter around him.

He thinks he can hold on tight enough for both of them.

He lowers his head until his right cheek is pressed against Drake's wet hair and he closes his eyes. He hasn't prayed in years, not since he was a child; he's not sure he remembers how. But he tries anyway, saying simply, fervently, "Dear God, please don't let him die. Please don't let him die." Tears roll down his nose, falling into Drake's hair.

He repeats it. Over and over.

He's still saying it when the ambulance arrives.

* * *

_Please review. Thank you._


	4. First Contact

**TITLE:** The Quality of Darkness  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**A/N:** It's a little short, but when you've reached a natural stopping point, why force it?

_

* * *

__Chapter 4: First Contact_

_Over the past four weeks, Drake and Mr. Bradford had fallen into a sort of easy routine. Due to Drake's band practice and the fact that most of their gigs fell on Friday nights, the tutoring sessions had been taking place on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons._

_It was a Thursday – the _last _Thursday, if Drake had his way – and Drake was tapping the tip of his ballpoint pen to an internal beat against his notebook as he waited for Mr. Bradford to finish reading his paper on the two biggest causes of the Civil War. They had managed to work their way through the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and the Mexican-American War during the last month. Drake, if pressed, would have had to admit that some of the stuff was kind of interesting – but not interesting enough to cost him two hours a week after school._

_That's why he was hoping that this paper would be enough to satisfy Mr. Bradford and bring an end to these mandated tutoring sessions. It was bugging him, though, that the teacher was scribbling so much on his paper with a red pen. _That can't be good_, he thought._

_Drake stopped tapping when Mr. Bradford closed the clear plastic cover on Drake's paper and set it down, looking across his desk at him. The teacher said nothing for a long moment._

_Shifting uneasily in his seat, Drake broke the silence. "Well?" he asked hopefully._

_Mr. Bradford sat back in his chair, twisting the red pen in his left hand and propping his chin in his right. "Frankly, Mr. Parker," he said evenly, his eyes holding Drake's, "I'm a little disappointed."_

"_What?" Drake asked sharply, trying and failing to keep the anger out of his voice. "Why?"_

_Mr. Bradford didn't seem fazed by Drake's sudden vehemence. He waited a moment, letting the fire of the young man's anger fizzle away, which it soon did, as quickly as it had flared. "Because it doesn't reflect the caliber of work I believe you're capable of doing."_

_Drake was incredulous, gaping at his teacher with a slightly open mouth. All he could think about was all the time he had spent working on it; he had actually cancelled his plans twice that week to finish it – something he _never_ did. "But I worked so hard on it," he muttered, halfway to himself._

"_It's not _bad_, Mr. Parker," Mr. Bradford said gently, trying to reassure him. "You've definitely shown improvement over your previous work. But I just think you can do better."_

"_What's wrong with it?" Drake asked. He really wanted to know. Most of the time he didn't care, knew that his grade reflected the minimal amount of work he put into it. But this paper was different; he had actually _worked_ on it and it bothered him that his effort wasn't being rewarded the way he thought it should be._

"_Well, for starters, the structure of your paper is weak. You start off in the introduction explaining what you're going to talk about, but then the paper seems to lose focus. It's not clear where one point ends and another one begins." Mr. Bradford watched Drake closely across his desk, could see him slowly sinking into his chair. "Plus, your supporting evidence is weak, you fail to adequately cite your sources, and your conclusion doesn't effectively summarize what you've talked about."_

_Drake waited for him to say more and when he didn't, asked sarcastically, "Is that all?" He knew he sounded shrill, but he couldn't help it. He also knew what Mr. Bradford was going to say next and braced himself for the inevitable._

"_I want you to work on it over the weekend, using my notes as a guide," Mr. Bradford said and he saw Drake's jaw tighten. "Have it for me at our next session next Tuesday."_

_Drake's mouth fell open again. "I was kinda hoping that we could stop with the tutoring. I mean," he said, gesturing with his hands, "I'm doing okay, right?"_

_Mr. Bradford smiled slightly. "Yes, you're doing okay, Mr. Parker," he replied. He gave Drake a serious look. "But I would hope that after all the work you've been putting in, you'd want to do better than just okay."_

_Drake had to admit that he was getting a little bit of satisfaction out of knowing that he was getting a grade higher than a D for once. "Yes, sir."_

"_Give me two more weeks. Four more sessions," Mr. Bradford said. "If you still want to quit after that, we can talk about it." He raised his eyebrows. "Okay?"_

Not really,_ Drake thought to himself. But he said grudgingly, "Two more weeks, huh? I guess that would be alright." _

"_Great," Mr. Bradford said, standing. He picked up Drake's paper, walking around his desk to hand it to him. "You're a smart kid, Mr. Parker," he said evenly, looking down at him. "If you'd only put as much energy into your schoolwork as you do into your social life, I have no doubt you'd be a straight A student."_

_Drake reached for the paper, wondering briefly how Mr. Bradford knew anything at all about his social life. But he brushed the thought away. "Yeah, well," he said, stuffing the paper in his backpack as he stood up, "I'll leave the straight A's to my brother. I'd just like to graduate." He favored the teacher with a self-deprecating smile._

_Mr. Bradford smiled back. "Well, I think you're well on your way," he said. "As long as you keep working hard," he added with a wink._

"_I'll do my best," Drake said._

"_I hope so." Mr. Bradford was watching him closely and it was starting to make Drake a little self-conscious._

"_Well," Drake said, breaking the tension and making a move towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow in class."_

"_Have a good night," Mr. Bradford said, letting Drake pass._

_Drake was to the door when he heard Mr. Bradford's voice behind him. "Do you need a ride home, Mr. Parker?"_

_Drake stopped, turning to face his teacher. As a matter of fact, he did need a ride; that morning Josh had told him that he needed the car that afternoon to go to work right after school – Crazy Steve was on vacation and Helen had asked him to cover his shift. But looking at the man in front of him, he was hesitant to admit it. "Well," he began._

_Mr. Bradford cut him off, saying nonchalantly, "The only reason I ask is because I have to meet someone on that side of town in" – he looked at his watch – "thirty minutes and I don't want to leave you waiting here by yourself after school hours."_

_Drake thought it over. The guy seemed sincere; besides, he had given him a ride home once before and it had been alright. He shrugged, "Okay," he said. "Thanks."_

"_No problem," Mr. Bradford said, going back to his desk and gathering up his things._

_They walked out together and Drake waited as Mr. Bradford checked the doors to make sure they were locked. As they walked to the teachers' parking lot, Drake spotted Mr. Bradford's Suburban parked at the end of the first row; he had had the windows tinted, he noticed, since the last time he'd given him a ride. He mentioned as much to Mr. Bradford._

"_Yeah," Mr. Bradford said, laughing easily. "This southern California sun is wreaking havoc on my upholstery."_

"_Where did you live before?" Drake asked, making conversation._

"_Minnesota," Mr. Bradford answered quickly._

"_They don't have sun in Minnesota?" Drake asked jokingly._

_Mr. Bradford gestured to the sky. "Not like this," he said, then changed the subject._

* * *

_The drive to Drake's house passed in casual conversation; the two were talking about music. When Drake told him that he liked Eric Clapton, Mr. Bradford laughed._

"_What's so funny?" Drake asked._

_Mr. Bradford shook his head. "Look in the console."_

_With a curious look, Drake reached to his left and pressed the latch on the center console. When the lid popped up, he looked inside, his eyes widening. "No way," he said, reaching in and pulling out a stack of CDs. Two of the first five were Eric Clapton albums. When he got to the sixth one in the stack, Drake couldn't contain his excitement. "You've got _24 Days_?" he asked incredulously, casting a sideways glance at Mr. Bradford and seeing the man grin widely. "I've been looking all over for this one! Where'd you get it?" He flipped it over, his eyes scanning the back cover._

"_I saw him in concert a couple years ago," Mr. Bradford said. "They were selling copies of all his CDs there." He looked over at Drake and motioned to the CD with his head. "Look inside," he instructed as he turned his eyes back to the road. They were closing in on Drake's street and he turned on his blinker._

_Drake did as instructed; his mouth fell open. "It's autographed," Drake said reverently, touching the signature lightly with his fingertips._

"_Pretty cool, huh," Mr. Bradford said, turning onto Drake's street._

"Yeah_ it is," Drake said, his eyes still on the CD. He didn't even notice when Mr. Bradford maneuvered the SUV next to the curb in front of his house._

_Putting the vehicle in park, Mr. Bradford turned in his seat to look at Drake. "Keep it," he said, smiling._

_Drake snapped his head up, looking at the teacher with wide eyes. "No," he finally said, placing the CD reluctantly on top of the stack and putting the stack back in the console. "No, I-I couldn't."_

"_Take it," Mr. Bradford insisted, reaching into the console and pulling out the CD. He held it out to Drake. When Drake didn't take it, he said, "Go on. I can see that it means more to you than it does to me anyway."_

"_How about I just make a copy of it and then give it back to you?" Drake asked tentatively, a little unsure about accepting something so valuable from a teacher._

_Mr. Bradford chuckled. "Or," he suggested, "you make a copy, give the copy to me, and keep the original for yourself."_

"_But…" Drake protested._

"_It's either that or you don't get it at all," he teased, smiling as he wiggled the CD in front of Drake's face._

_Drake finally relented. "Fine," he said, taking the CD from him. He looked Mr. Bradford in the eyes. "Thank you," he said sincerely._

"_You're welcome," the teacher replied, resting his right hand on Drake's left shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze, his thumb making small circular motions._

_The air inside the vehicle suddenly seemed heavier and Drake quickly reached for the door handle, a vague tremor traveling up his spine. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Bradford," he said, sliding out of the Suburban and standing on the curb._

"_Don't forget about that paper," Mr. Bradford reminded him._

"_I won't," Drake said. He held up the CD. "Thanks again." He closed the door with a heavy thud._

_As he walked towards his front door, it didn't even occur to him to wonder how Mr. Bradford remembered after a month exactly which house was his._

* * *

Reviews are lovely. Thanks!


	5. A Place of Suffering

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own _Drake & Josh. _All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

* * *

Chapter 5: A Place of Suffering

Josh is standing in the tub, soaked to the skin, watching the two EMTs work feverishly on his brother, who's sprawled out on the floor between them. It had taken all his strength to yell out when they called from the foyer and now, watching them check Drake's vitals and evaluate his wounds, he feels like he's going to faint.

Someone is talking to him, but he can't understand the words. He looks to his right and sees a man with light brown hair looking back at him expectantly through blue-gray eyes.

"What?" Josh asks, his lips forming around the word like it was foreign to him.

"Do you know if he's taken anything?" the man asks him, his voice urgent.

Josh can see the EMT's lips moving, but the sound doesn't seem to match, like those really cheesy kung fu movies he and Drake like to watch late at night. It takes a long time for the words to line up coherently inside Josh's head. "No, I…" he fumbles, "I don't know." And he shakes his head, but the man has already turned away.

The two EMTs speak to each other in low tones and Josh wants to scream, _What's taking you so long?_ because to him it feels like time has stopped.

In reality, less than two minutes has passed.

Sensory memories bombard him – the sound of his heart thumping in his ears; the sight of the light gleaming off the stethoscope pressed to Drake's chest; the lingering smell of soap; the feel of his wet clothes clinging to his skin; the taste of his own tears on his lips.

The clicking sound of the stretcher being lifted to its maximum height captures Josh's attention. "Where are you taking him?" he asks almost indignantly, like Drake's being arrested instead of rescued, like they're carting him off to jail instead of to the hospital.

"Mercy Hospital," the other one replies, throwing the words over his shoulder as he concentrates on securing Drake to the stretcher. He pulls the last strap tight, turns to look at Josh, who's still standing in the shower, unable to move. "You can ride with us if you want."

Josh still doesn't move, just watches them in silence as they finish up in the bathroom, gathering their things. One of them scrapes the wall with his bag, leaving a mark, and Josh thinks irrationally that his dad's going to be annoyed when he sees it; they just repainted the bathroom a month ago.

Suddenly they're gone. They've left him behind; they don't have time to wait for him. He can hear them heading down the stairs – one of them is talking on the radio, but he can't understand what they're saying. The voices trail off as they head for the front door.

"Wait," he says, and he thinks he's yelled it, but the word is only a whisper. He jumps out of the tub, running for the stairs. He's unconsciously favoring his right leg; his knee is starting to swell.

"Wait!" he says again, louder this time, hurtling down the stairs two at a time, gripping the railing tightly. When he bursts into the foyer, he can see them heading down the front walk towards the ambulance parked along the curb in front of their house. The flashing lights have already attracted some onlookers.

_What if he dies?_ The question pops unbidden into his head and he tries to shake it off, but it lingers, and he realizes that that's really why he's running after them – he can't let his brother die alone.

* * *

The siren isn't as loud as he thought it would be from inside the ambulance and the red and blue lights cast an eerie glow over the scenery, he notices, as he glances out the back windows. He watches as the traffic that parted to let them pass falls back into place and suddenly it all seems vaguely biblical.

_Hail Mary, full of grace…_

He's not Catholic; he's not anything, really, but bits of a childhood parochial education keep popping into his head.

_Whosoever believeth in him shall not perish…_

_The meek shall inherit the earth…_

_Thou shalt not kill._

This last one almost makes him laugh, except that nothing's funny, not anymore, and he's not sure anything ever will be again.

"_How _old is he?" The voice behind the words is gentle, but tinged with incredulity.

The question draws Josh back and he turns his eyes towards the EMT with the blue-gray eyes. His nametag, Josh can now see, says "Walsh." He knows the man already knows the answer; Josh gave all these details to the dispatcher what seems like a lifetime ago. But the look in the man's eyes reflects that in Josh's own – he just can't believe it.

"Seventeen," Josh replies and he sees the man's jaw clench – so young, the action says, such a waste – as he turns back towards Drake and busies himself with doing all he can to keep the boy alive.

Josh looks at his brother. He's too young to die, he thinks, but he's old enough to decide he wants to.

"I'd like to wake up now, please," Josh says as he stares at his brother's face and he doesn't realize he's said it out loud. The EMT casts him a sympathetic look over his shoulder but doesn't reply.

* * *

He thinks this must be what Hell is like. Or Purgatory. Or wherever it is that sinners go to suffer.

The lights are too bright, the air too cold, the room too noisy. But he doesn't notice any of it as he sits shivering in the waiting area, hunched over his knees, hands cradling his head, staring down at his feet. He doesn't know how long he's been there, but it can't have been too long, he thinks – his shoes are still wet.

He wants to cry, feels the tears form behind his eyes. But they won't fall. They did before – he remembers the taste of them on his lips – but now, as he closes his eyes, he can't even squeeze them out. He hates himself for it; his brother could be dead and he can't even shed a tear.

He's a terrible person.

A sudden vibration against his thigh makes him jump. Drake's cell phone, he realizes, as he reaches in his pocket for it. He didn't know he still had it. He must've shoved it in his pocket out of habit.

He flips it open and reads the screen – "Walter." He's calling from his cell phone and suddenly Josh can't breathe. _Oh god._ He's been avoiding this moment, hoping to put it off until he knew what to say. He's been waiting for the right words to materialize.

But there aren't any right words for this, he realizes, only the truth. And those words are cold. And they're sharp. And they're so very, very _wrong._

It's been ringing for a long time and finally he presses his thumb against the TALK button before voicemail picks up, before another message is left unchecked.

"Hello?" he asks and closes his eyes against the emptiness in his own voice.

"Josh?" Walter asks, surprised. He can picture his dad checking his phone to see that he's dialed the right number.

"Yeah."

"I just tried your phone, but you didn't answer," Walter says and Josh can hear his dad's good mood. His cheerfulness seems profane at a time like this, but there's no way Walter can know that.

"It's broken." _So am I. So is Drake. The world is broken._

Walter laughs, a sound that cuts Josh to his core. He opens his mouth to speak, but can't; he doesn't have the heart for it. Instead, he listens to Walter chatter away. "…not checking up on you, I swear. But you know your mom," he's saying, lowering his voice conspiratorially on that last part. "She worries. I keep telling her, 'Honey, they're _fine._ They can take care of themselves…'"

And at these words, something cracks inside Josh. "Dad…"

But Walter doesn't hear him, just keeps talking. "…but with Drake being sick all week…you know," he says suddenly, switching gears, "just between you and me, I don't think he was really sick; I just think he didn't want to go to school. And I think the only reason he even got out of bed this morning was to convince your mom it was okay to leave town." He laughs again and Josh wants to scream.

Josh feels like he's going to be sick and gets up, limping through the automatic doors into the warm night air. He sees a woman about twenty feet away nervously smoking a cigarette, aggressively chewing her thumbnail between drags. She casts him a look and he sees that she's been crying, dark rivulets of mascara creeping down her face. She turns away when she sees him looking at her.

He recognizes her pain.

He takes a deep breath as he leans against one of the pillars that line the main emergency entrance. His dad is still talking. "Dad," he says again, trying to get his attention. _Listen to me!_ he wants to scream. He closes his eyes again.

"…forget to water your mom's plants," Walter's saying, his words stumbling over each other in their haste to exit his mouth. "Oh! And I told George he could borrow my drill, so if he stops by –"

"Drake tried to kill himself," Josh says quickly, cutting him off, his voice surprisingly unemotional. The words are heavy and bitter on his tongue.

Walter stops abruptly. He _couldn't_ have just heard what he thinks he heard. "What?" he asks and Josh can hear the hint of pleading in his voice.

"We're at Mercy Hospital," he whispers. "Please hurry." And he pulls the phone away from his ear before his dad can say any more, presses the button to end the call, holds it down to turn off the phone.

The tears finally come, hot and fierce.

* * *

Hospitals are unique places, places where so many extremes can happen at once. People die. People are born. Joy and pain coalesce. Miracles, if there are such things, happen. The hope for a miracle fades away.

A man and his wife – wild-eyed and frazzled, wearing their worry like a yoke around their necks – round the corner in a hallway lit by nighttime lighting. The man holds his wife's hand tightly, as if it's the only thing keeping them both from crumbling into dust. The woman's eyes are red and shining.

A tall young man, weighed down by a grief he's been bearing alone for hours, stands to greet them. The woman, his mother in all the ways it really matters, grasps his arm and looks beseechingly into his eyes.

_Tell me,_ she begs him. _Tell me it's all a terrible mistake._

But her son shakes his head. He doesn't have the words to take that look from her eyes. All he has to tell her is the terrible truth.

The woman's knees give out and she starts to sink; the two men have to help her to a chair, they have to be her strength. They sit down next to her, one on each side. Her husband still holds one hand, her son takes the other.

In a dimly lit room not far from where they sit, another young man, bruised by a life he no longer wants, opens his eyes long before anyone expected him to. He's disoriented at first, but then the muted, steady beeping cuts through the fog in his head and confirms what, for him, is an awful truth.

He's still alive.

* * *

_I just couldn't do it...Drake & Josh without Drake is like a bike with a flat tire - less fun._

_Please review. And THANKS to everyone who has so far! I appreciate it._


	6. Point of No Return

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own _Drake & Josh. _All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** I usually like to post chapters in pairs, but I'm not quite finished with the next (present) chapter and I didn't want to keep the loyal readers waiting. I promise to have the next chapter up ASAP, but next week is a hectic work week for me, so please be patient!

* * *

_Chapter 6: Point of No Return_

"_I think you're making a big mistake," Mr. Bradford said evenly, focusing his light blue eyes on Drake. "With just a little more work, you could be getting an A."_

_Drake was getting a B – a very low, almost-not-a-B, but still a B – and was happy with it. But he was having a difficult time getting Mr. Bradford to understand that he just didn't care about getting an A. To Drake, a B _was_ an A. "All I really wanted to do was pass, Mr. Bradford," he patiently explained. "I'm doing more than that thanks to you." He thought he'd add that last part to try to smooth Mr. Bradford's ruffled feathers._

_They were standing in Mr. Bradford's classroom. It was the Tuesday before the Thanksgiving holiday and Drake had unequivocally decided that this was going to be the last tutoring session even though there was technically one left. Sure, he was doing better in this class than in any other. And that had a lot to do with Mr. Bradford. But he figured that even if he slacked off like usual and only turned in his usual mediocre work, he'd still end up with a low C. And that was enough to graduate._

_Mr. Bradford took a step closer to Drake, closing the space between them to about a foot and a half. "Mr. Parker," he said quietly, resting his hand on Drake's shoulder. "I really feel like I've failed you." He squeezed Drake's shoulder and Drake was suddenly acutely aware of Mr. Bradford's fingers pressing into his skin._

"_Mr. Bradford, look…" Drake said, stepping out from the teacher's grasp. "I appreciate all you've done for me. Really. All my other teachers would have given up on me by now." He smiled lopsidedly. "But I think you're taking this whole thing a little too personally."_

_That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Mr. Bradford's eyes darkened. "I take my job very personally, Mr. Parker. I don't appreciate it when someone makes a joke of it." His voice was low._

"_I'm sorry," Drake said softly, his heart starting to beat faster. There was something about the way Mr. Bradford was looking at him that made him uncomfortable. "I didn't mean…"_

"_Hey," Mr. Bradford said. "Don't worry about it." He laughed lightly. "Sometimes I get a little defensive." He slapped Drake lightly on the arm, let his hand linger there for a couple seconds. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I do take it a little too personally."_

"_Yeah," Drake said softly, still slightly confused about Mr. Bradford's sudden change in mood. But he let it pass. Smiling again, he said, "What is it they say? 'It's not you, it's me.'"_

_Mr. Bradford tilted his head slightly, an amused expression on his face. His blond hair nearly fell into his eyes. Crossing his arms over his chest, he asked, "So I guess this means you're breaking up with me."_

_Drake was struck by the weirdness of that statement. "Uh…" he began, fumbling, trying to smile. The rapidly changing dynamic in the room was throwing him off balance. "I just don't think more tutoring is going to do any good. No matter what you think, I've hit the ceiling when it comes to quality of work," he added self-deprecatingly. "You'd just be wasting your time."_

"_On the contrary, Mr. Parker," the teacher said and this time he was right in front of Drake – so close, Drake could feel his body heat. "I don't find you to be a waste of time in the least." He smiled in a way that was more than just friendly. "In fact, I've rather enjoyed our time together. Haven't you?"_

_Drake's eyes automatically sought the door. Over Mr. Bradford's shoulder, he could see that the hallway was empty; it had emptied even faster than usual because of the holiday. "Yeah," he said, turning his eyes back towards Mr. Bradford, "it's been swell. But," he continued, looking quickly at the clock, "I really gotta get going. I have to pick my sister up from oboe practice." It was a lie; Megan didn't play the oboe anymore. But Mr. Bradford didn't know that. He was suddenly very thankful that he had the car today; Josh had caught a ride home with Eric._

_The look Mr. Bradford gave him was a mixture of skepticism and amusement. A funny little half-smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "Oboe, huh? I've heard that's a tough instrument."_

_Drake could tell Mr. Bradford was stalling; for what reason he didn't know. He couldn't put his finger on what exactly was bothering him, but something…_something_ was different. "Yeah, well," he muttered, readjusting his backpack on his shoulder, "she's a tough girl." Mr. Bradford was blocking him in the aisle and he had no space to go around him. "And she gets really mad when she's kept waiting, so…" He raised his eyebrows and shrugged._

"_Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Mr. Bradford said mockingly, taking a couple steps back and allowing Drake to pass._

_Drake let the comment pass, opting to make a beeline to the door. "Have a nice holiday, Mr. Bradford," he mumbled over his shoulder just as he reached the door._

"_You do the same, Mr. Parker," Mr. Bradford replied._

* * *

_Heading down the empty hallway, his footsteps echoed softly on the polished cement floor. When he reached the front door, Drake pushed it open. The late afternoon sunshine threw long shadows across the sidewalk, dry leaves skittered across the cement in the light breeze. Drake stopped, holding the door open with his left hand as he dug in his right pocket for his keys. They weren't there. He tried his left pocket, propping the door open with his foot. Nothing. Quickly he riffled the pockets of his backpack, hoping to find them. When he came up empty, he closed his eyes. _

_Where did he have them last? He retraced the afternoon's timeline in his head. School had gotten out. Josh had met him by their lockers to tell him that he could keep the car, that he was getting a ride home from Eric. He had told Josh that he didn't have his keys with him, that he had forgotten them at home. Josh had rolled his eyes in exasperation and had reached into his pocket for his set, handing them to Drake. Drake had them in his hand and was jingling them when he sauntered five minutes late into Mr. Bradford's classroom, having already decided to call the tutoring quits. Mr. Bradford had been waiting for him; he had looked meaningfully at the clock – a subtle reminder that Drake was late – and had beckoned Drake over to his desk._

_Drake suddenly looked up. _Crap._ They were on Mr. Bradford's desk, where he had set them down when he reached for the paper the teacher handed him._

_He'd have to go back. Reluctantly, he turned on his heels and headed back in the direction of Mr. Bradford's classroom, the sound of the front door latch clicking shut echoing down the empty hallway. Just as he was walking through the door he said in a voice he tried to make as light as possible, "Hey, Mr. Bradford –" but the sentence was cut short when Drake saw the teacher._

_He was standing next to his desk in a state of undress that could very nearly be called naked – shirtless, pants-less, shoeless, Drake noticed, as his eyes traveled quickly from Mr. Bradford's face to his bare feet, where they stayed. All that separated them from absolute embarrassment was a thin layer of gray cotton._

"_I was just changing into my jogging clothes," Mr. Bradford said. "Since there was no one around, I figured I was safe." He laughed lightly. "I guess I was wrong."_

"_I-I'm sorry," Drake stuttered awkwardly, refusing to look up. He could see Mr. Bradford slip a pair of dark blue nylon running shorts over his feet._

"_There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr. Parker," the teacher said. "If anyone should be, it's me. And I'm not. So you can stop staring at my feet." He laughed again._

_Drake forced himself to drag his eyes upwards to the man's face. He still hadn't put a shirt on, but there was a white shirt dangling from his right hand. His light blue eyes were intently studying Drake's expression, his own face passive._

"_Did you change your mind about ending the tutoring?" he asked evenly, his eyes searching Drake's hopefully._

_Drake was having a hard time concentrating. The weirdness of seeing Mr. Bradford standing there bare-chested and barefoot in his own classroom was rather discomfiting. "N-No, sir," he answered after a moment, shifting his weight and hitching his backpack into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. "I forgot my keys."_

_Mr. Bradford waited a moment before responding, a tiny smile drawing up one corner of his mouth as his eyes scanned Drake from head to toe. "Too bad," he finally said, grasping the shirt tightly in his right fingers, the knuckles turning white. "I was hoping you'd come to your senses." His voice was soft, but held an undercurrent of malice that caused the hairs on Drake's arms to stand on end._

"_I think I left them on your desk," Drake replied, ignoring Mr. Bradford's comment. His eyes flicked to the door, then quickly back to the teacher, who noticed the look and asked wryly, "In a hurry, Mr. Parker?"_

_Drake shrugged. "My sister, remember?" he said, recalling the story he had given the teacher before. He had a strong desire to leave; but he couldn't go anywhere without his keys. "I'm already late."_

_Mr. Bradford smiled again and the gesture seemed reptilian. "Can't wait to get away from this place for a few days, huh?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. "I can relate." He pulled his shirt on – an old Minnesota Vikings t-shirt with the sleeves cut off – and Drake felt a wave of relief wash over him that he couldn't explain. When the teacher turned towards his desk to look for the keys, Drake let out his breath slowly and once again eyed the empty hallway._

"_Ah," he heard Mr. Bradford say. "Here they are." Drake could hear the jingle of keys and the sound drew his attention back. Mr. Bradford met his eyes as he held the keys out to Drake._

_Taking a step closer, Drake held out his hand to grab the keys, which were dangling from Mr. Bradford's left index finger and thumb. But just as he was about to close his own fingers around them, Mr. Bradford jerked them away._

"_You'll get these back on one condition," he said teasingly._

_Drake fought to keep the annoyance from his face and voice. "What's that?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest._

"_That you seriously reconsider your decision to end our sessions."_

Was this guy serious?_ For the life of him, Drake couldn't understand why the guy was taking it so hard. But if he had to promise in order to get out of there, then fine. It wouldn't be the first time he'd told a lie to get his way._

"_Fine," he said and wished he sounded more sincere._ But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.

_Drake's response made Mr. Bradford smirk. "I would've liked a little more conviction behind that response, but I'll take what I can get." He held out the keys again._

_Reaching for them, Drake almost screamed when the teacher jerked them away again. But then the teacher dropped them into Drake's still-open palm a second later, chuckling. "A little joke, Mr. Parker."_

_Drake clutched the keys tightly in his fist and headed towards the door. "Happy Thanksgiving," he heard the teacher say, but didn't reply back as he walked quickly down the hall and burst through the front door into the growing late afternoon shadows._

_By the time Drake reached his car, sitting by itself in the student parking lot, he felt a little better. By the time he got in and closed the door, securing his seatbelt around him, he was actually smiling, the freedom of the upcoming long weekend wiping out the strangeness of the last few minutes. Everything else that had happened that afternoon – all the weird moments – had already begun to fade away._

_He fished out his cell phone and speed-dialed his brother. Drake didn't want to start his holiday by simply going home, so he thought he'd ask Josh if he wanted to hang out. The phone rang twice, then he heard Josh say hurriedly through the phone, "Can't talk now. Crazy Steve's having a…LOOK OUT!"_

_The line went dead. Drake stared at his phone, then shrugged. So Josh was at work; Helen must've called him in. He slid the phone back into his pocket and turned the ignition. As the car roared to life, he decided he would pop in at The Premiere. He didn't feel like going home. Besides, he could always go for a (free) movie._

_As he pulled out of the parking lot, he saw Mr. Bradford heading for his vehicle. He subconsciously accelerated as he headed south towards the movie theater, putting as much distance between him and the teacher as he could._

* * *

_He never got a chance to talk to Josh. From the minute he stepped foot into the movie theater, Josh, wearing his coveted gold vest, was averting one crisis after another, never getting the chance to talk. Drake had waited for him for over an hour, helping himself to a soda and a large popcorn in the meantime. But he had quickly gotten bored – he had already seen all the movies and there hadn't even been any pretty girls to flirt with, surprisingly enough. Apparently it was Family Night at the theater; the place was full of frazzled parents and screaming kids. So, waving bye to Josh when he had managed to catch his brother's eye, he left. He stopped off at Inside Out Burger, ordered the #2 value meal with cheese, and ate it slowly, savoring the fact that he had five whole days off to do whatever he wanted. Not to mention that it was Thanksgiving in two days and his mom would make her "famous" cheddar mashed potatoes. His mouth was watering just thinking about it._

_Dusk was approaching by the time Drake was finished with his meal and he decided to head home before his mom got worried. She never expected him home right after school – she wasn't home then herself most of the time – but she did want them home for dinner, if possible. He looked guiltily down at the remnants of his value meal, but shook the feeling off. He'd eat a few bites of dinner just to make his mom happy; he could _always_ eat something._

_He'd just about forgotten the thing with Mr. Bradford until he turned on his street and saw what looked like Mr. Bradford's Suburban parked next to the curb in front of his house. Suddenly, he was annoyed. What the heck was _he_ doing here? Parking his car behind Walter's Camry, he got out, slamming the door with more force than was necessary to close it. Stalking up the front walk, he opened the front door._

_Laughter greeted his entrance. He closed the door behind him and the sound must have caught his mom's attention because he heard her call out, "Drake, is that you?"_

"_Yeah, Mom," he answered, stepping to the edge of the foyer. Looking into the living room, he saw his mom and Walter sitting on the couch. Mr. Bradford was sitting on the chair closest to the fireplace, facing him, wearing a gray and black warm-up suit over his clothes. They were all smiling back at him like they had something bad to tell him._

"_What's wrong?" he asked warily, and he could feel his pulse quicken. _

"_Nothing's wrong, son," Walter said genially. "Mr. Bradford was just telling us how well you're doing in history."_

"_Was he, now?" His eyes locked with Mr. Bradford's. The teacher looked guilelessly back at him. "Couldn't he just send a note home or something?"_

"_I think it's nice that he's taken a personal interest in you," Audrey said. "If you had more teachers like him –"_

"_I'd never have any free time. All my days would be filled with tutoring," he interrupted, the words coming out more sarcastic than he intended. He wasn't sure why he was bothered so much by Mr. Bradford being there; it wasn't like this was the first time one of his teachers had been to his house. It was just that…well, it was starting to feel like the guy was stalking him. It made him a little uncomfortable._

"_Now, son. Mr. Bradford is only trying to help you," Walter said. "That's why he's here, in fact. He told us you've decided to stop the tutoring."_

"_That's right," Drake said, a little defensively. He moved into the living room, dropping his backpack into the empty chair across from Mr. Bradford and standing at the end of the sofa, hands shoved in his pockets._

"_Why?" his mom asked. _

"_Because I don't need it," he said quickly, looking at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mr. Bradford watching him. "I'm doing fine."_

"_He could do better," Mr. Bradford said._

"_I'm getting a B!" Drake protested, not looking at him._

_Audrey's eyes widened in surprise. "Really?" She turned to look at the teacher. "Is that true?"_

_Mr. Bradford paused a moment before answering. "Yes," he said patiently. "But barely." He flicked his gaze back to Drake for a second, before settling it once again on Audrey. He set his coffee mug down on the table in front of him and leaned forward, his face set in a serious, pedantic expression. "Your son is a lot smarter than he lets on. I believe he has a high capacity for learning if he'd just put his mind to it. He's shown a real aptitude for history." He smiled, looking at Drake. "I think he actually likes it, but I don't think he'd ever admit it."_

"_How would continuing with the tutoring benefit Drake? I mean, if he's passing…" Walter said and Drake wanted to hug him._

"_I want my students to succeed, Mr. Nichols, not just get by. Based on his academic history, your stepson is not a self-starter. He's not internally motivated to do well in his schoolwork. I think he has the potential to be a great student. And while I can't help him with all his studies, I can help him with history. I'm afraid," he said, concentrating his argument on Audrey, "that without a little guidance, that B will quickly turn into a C. Or lower." He looked pointedly at Drake. "And I, for one, would hate to see that."_

_Drake was fuming. "That's not fair," he said heatedly, gesturing wildly with his hands. He looked at his mom. "Mom," he pleaded, "don't listen to him."_

"_Drake," she said. "He only wants what's best for you. We all do."_

"_And you think that's getting an A in history?" he asked incredulously. He couldn't believe what he was hearing._

_Audrey remained calm in the face of his anger. "It's not the A, Drake. It's the sense of accomplishment that goes with it. You haven't brought home an A since grade school. I think it would be nice to see an A on your report card for once, don't you? I think you'd be surprised how good it'd make you feel."_

_She was talking about how much _he'd_ like it, but he knew she was really talking about how much _she'd_ like it. And suddenly he knew that he'd lost. He stared back at her sullenly._

"_Mr. Bradford is willing to continue tutoring you after school. He thinks it's a good idea," she continued. "And so do we." She motioned between Walter and herself, although Drake suspected that Walter was just going along with what his mom wanted._

_The subject was closed. Drake nodded. "Fine."_

"_Good," she said, brightening. "You'll see," she assured him. "It won't be as bad you think."_

Sure._ But he didn't say anything. He flashed a look that could melt steel at Mr. Bradford, who was looking back at him with a tiny smirk of self-satisfaction._

_Audrey stood. "Well, dinner's ready," she said. She turned to the teacher. "You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."_

"_No!" Drake exclaimed, startling everyone with his vehemence. He was still looking at Mr. Bradford when he said, "Mr. Bradford can't stay for dinner. Can you."_

_Mr. Bradford held Drake's gaze for a long moment before standing, saying, "No, no, I'm afraid I can't. I'm meeting a friend. But thank you for your kind offer," he added, smiling at Audrey and Walter._

"_Oh well," Audrey replied. "Maybe some other time."_

"_Certainly," Mr. Bradford said. "I look forward to it."_

_Walter stepped forward. "Let me show you out," he said cheerfully, ushering the teacher to the door._

"_I'll do it," Drake said suddenly. "I need to ask him something anyway." He forced a smile. "Be right back."_

_Teacher and student walked in silence down the front walk, towards the blue Suburban. When they were on the sidewalk, Drake turned on him. "Why are you doing this?" he asked hotly, his blood burning in his cheeks. _

_Mr. Bradford looked calmly back at him, his light eyes dark in the dim light of the street lamps. "Like I told your parents, I just want to see you succeed," he said evenly._

"_Bullshit." The word spilled from Drake's mouth before he could stop it, borne of anger and propelled by frustration._

_Mr. Bradford seemed unfazed by the profanity. He just smiled his little smile._

"_What's the real reason?" Drake demanded._

_The teacher paused before answering, studying Drake closely. "You really want to know?" he finally asked._

_Suddenly, Drake didn't think he wanted to know. But he nodded anyway, prompting Mr. Bradford to answer._

_Mr. Bradford leaned in a little, speaking so softly that his voice was almost carried away on the breeze. "I like you, Drake," he whispered and the use of his first name was not lost on Drake. "And I want us to be friends."_

_The tiny hairs on the back of Drake's neck stood at attention at the words._

_Drake stood frozen, staring dumbly back at him. "Mr. Bradford, I…" he managed, but couldn't say anything else._

"_I'd like it if you'd call me Nathan," Mr. Bradford said. "Just not in class," he added. "We wouldn't want the other students getting jealous, would we?" He laughed._

"_Well, goodnight Drake," Nathan said. "I'll see you on Monday. Have a happy Thanksgiving."_

_Nathan was rounding the front of the Suburban when he suddenly stopped and turned around, giving Drake a hard look. "Your sister doesn't play the oboe anymore, Drake," he said, seeming to savor the taste of Drake's first name on his tongue. "You lied to me." The ice in his voice froze the blood in Drake's veins and he watched, barely breathing, as Nathan climbed into his vehicle and started the engine._

_Drake watched in silence, his mind swirling, as the SUV's taillights disappeared around the corner, continuing to stare long after they were gone._

"_Drake!" Walter was calling him. "Time for dinner!"_

_When he walked into the house, he must have been wearing a look like he had just seen a ghost because his mom asked him, "Are you alright?"_

"_What?" he asked._

"_You look strange. Did something happen with Mr. Bradford?" she asked._

_Drake looked at his mother. Now was his chance to tell her. _Guess what, Mom? I don't think it's my grade he's interested in._ He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. The timing was wrong, he decided. She'd think he was just making it up to get out of the tutoring. She'd never believe him, anyway, not with his track record for lying. Besides, it was just a feeling; nothing had actually _happened.

_So he shook his head. "Everything's fine, Mom. Let's eat; I'm starving." See? Another lie._

_As he sat down at his place at the table, he suddenly got the feeling that he was standing on the edge of a canyon, staring down into the abyss._

* * *

Please review. Thank you!


	7. Aftershocks

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own _Drake & Josh. _All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** I know it's taken me a long time to post a new chapter, but I warned you that real life has been hectic for me! Thanks for being patient; I hope it was worth the wait.

**_A/N 2:_** I've taken a few liberties with some family/personal histories here as well; I hope they seem plausible.

* * *

Chapter 7: Aftershocks

She's been here before – this place of profound stillness; this place where she feels like if she moves too fast, the atmosphere around her will shatter into a million tiny shards.

She's thinking about her husband. Not Walter – sweet, gentle Walter – who saved her from the self-imposed prison she hadn't even known she was trapped in until he showed her that he had the key. No, her thoughts are crowded with memories of her first husband, Jason. She's thinking about the way he made her laugh like no one else, how she loved to just sit next to him and snake her fingers through his dark hair.

She's thinking about how much their son is like him in so many ways.

Drake was six years old the first time she saw him eat Chinese food with just one chopstick, gripping it in his small fingers and using it to stab his fried dumplings. She had asked the waitress to bring a fork, but Drake refused to use it, saying simply, "This is how Daddy did it." She had just stared at him, tears making his face swim before her; she didn't realize that he had remembered such a small detail about his father after so much time.

Jason Parker was so beautiful – dark eyes so full of life, a wide smile that would squeeze those eyes almost shut when it was at its fullest. He had swept her off her feet when she was twenty years old. He was twenty-three with wavy hair and a 1965 red Ford Mustang convertible that she used to joke he loved more than her. They used to drive fast down the interstate with the top down, listening to Pink Floyd and Frank Sinatra, her bare feet on the dash and his arm around her shoulders.

They married when they had nothing but each other, lived in a tiny apartment in Pasadena that didn't have air conditioning. Some nights it was so stifling, even with the windows open, that they sometimes slept in the Mustang with the top down.

Drake was conceived in that car, she remembers, and the memory makes her smile despite everything. She was terrified when she learned she was pregnant, but when she told Jason, he just laughed. He loved the idea of being a father. He used to sing to her belly all his favorite songs. He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but to her ears, it was the sweetest sound in the world.

To this day, she's convinced that's the reason why Drake became a musician.

She lost Jason in a hospital much like this one. Car accident. The cherry red Mustang with the trunkful of memories was nothing more than a twisted heap of metal after the collision. Semi tractor-trailer full of cargo; driver asleep at the wheel. Three lives changed in a split second.

Brain dead – that's what they told her. No hope for recovery. Would she consider organ donation? In the end, that's what happened. A young man with a congenital heart defect received Jason's heart. Another young man received his corneas. One of his kidneys went to a young woman in Texas.

She remembers sitting in a chair much like the one she's in now: worn with frayed upholstery and a tuft of protruding stuffing; armrests made of wood and shiny in spots where innumerable hands have absently rubbed in anticipation of news, any news, about a loved one. She was alone except for Megan, who wasn't Megan yet, really; more like an _idea_ of Megan that she shielded with her hands as she tried to imagine a life without Jason.

There was nothing left to do but what needed to be done, so she signed the papers to end the life support, signed more to authorize the organ donations. She told him about Megan and then they took him away. But he was already gone, she knew. That _life_ that had been Jason was already gone.

But it lived on in his son, who's grown to resemble him more with each passing year. Drake was four when his father died; he has memories of him, but they're few. When he was little, she used to tell him stories about his dad, but he has no need for them anymore.

Even now, after nearly fourteen years, Drake will laugh and it will be such a familiar sound that she almost calls him Jason. But Drake hasn't laughed, _really_ laughed, in a very long time. The realization grips her, strangling her breath.

"_He's a strong kid, Aud. He'll be alright."_

Jason's voice is as clear as if he was sitting right next to her. He used to say that to her when Drake was sick and she would walk the floors with worry. It always turned out to be true. She wants to believe it will be true now, _needs_ to believe it will be.

Her son tried to kill himself. She can't seem to get past it. She still hasn't really accepted it. Not her son. Never her son. Her son loves life. Her son is happy. Her son has everything to live for.

Lies, obviously. All lies.

There must've been signs. Why didn't she see them? He was a part of her; how could she have missed them? She's his mother. She's supposed to know him better than anyone.

She realizes that she doesn't know him at all.

Words. So many words. Big words. Small words. Words of comfort. Words of caution. Words of sympathy. All of them meaningless, none of them as loud as the unspoken words of her son. The ones he didn't say. The ones he couldn't say. The ones that would have explained the pain that eventually drove him to decide that death was better than life.

He's asleep; has been since she arrived in a frenzied panic at the hospital all those incalculable hours ago. Feels like a lifetime. She doesn't know – no one does – that he's already opened his eyes once and found the experience traumatic. Phrases like "possible brain damage" and "catastrophic blood loss" scrape across her mind like desiccated leaves.

_"Too soon to tell," the doctor says mildly when Audrey asks him if her son is going to be alright. "We're monitoring him."_

Good luck with that, _she wants say, the bitter words poised on the tip of her tongue. _I've done that his entire life. Look where it got him.

She can't cry. Not anymore. There are no more tears left. She stares dry-eyed at the collection of empty cups that once held vending machine coffee weak enough to rival dishwater. They're spread out on the table in front of her, scattered among back issues of _Vogue _and _National Geographic_. Some of them are stacked like a pyramid at the other end of the table. Josh did that, she remembers. He stacked them and knocked them down, over and over again, until Walter finally gave him the keys to the Explorer and told him to go home.

Walter is wandering somewhere, testing his personal theory about the speed at which bad news travels. He has this idea that if he keeps moving, then the bad stuff won't be able to catch up to him. That if he can hide from the worst, then the worst won't happen.

She prefers to face it head-on, whatever it is.

Even if 'whatever' turns out to be the worst 'whatever' there is.

* * *

His forecast called for rain. Walter is standing in the solarium – a fairly new addition to the hospital, a gift from a rich benefactor – looking at the sky through the glass ceiling. Cumulo-nimbus clouds darken the sky and Walter almost laughs out loud at the fact that, for once, he's going to be right about the weather.

The bleak weather seems fitting. It's dreary inside – inside the hospital, inside his head, inside his heart – why shouldn't it be dreary outside as well?

Walter heaves a heavy sigh, the exhalation shaky. His eyelids feel like sandpaper against his eyes and if he didn't know any better, he could swear that the force of gravity is double what it was yesterday – his limbs feel too heavy.

He looks around; he's alone in the room. He's not surprised, really. There's not a whole lot that's more depressing than a sun room without sun. Worn-but-comfortable chairs and tables peppered with out-of-date periodicals are scattered throughout the room. Potted plants in big cement planters divide the room in half and line the floor-to-ceiling windows on the east side.

It's quiet; it feels like the rest of the hospital is far removed from this place. Walter thinks that maybe that was how it was intended – a place of peace in an otherwise chaotic and unpredictable environment. But he doesn't feel at peace. In fact, he feels jumbled and unsettled. His mind can't rest, it just keeps racing like mice injected with speed and released into a maze, searching for the way out.

Except it's a trick; there is no way out.

The rain has started and Walter walks over to the glass and looks out. They drove into the rain last night, just outside San Diego. He had been pushing the speed limit, then past it the closer they got to home. When he closes his eyes, he can still hear the steady _whoosh_ of the wiper blades against the windshield. It seemed louder than usual since it was the only sound inside the car. Neither of them had spoken, fear and anxiety stealing their voices.

He keeps replaying it in his head – the moment the world caved in around them.

_When he hangs up with Josh – actually, Josh hung up on him – he immediately tries to call back. When Drake's voicemail picks up without even ringing, he ends the call; he knows Josh has turned off the phone. He stands staring at the phone in his hand, trying to assimilate what Josh has just told him, his brain resisting comprehension._

"_Drake tried to kill himself." He says the words out loud, trying them on for size, surprised that he can say them without effort. "Drake tried to kill himself."_

_He keeps saying them, over and over, until the wall that is blocking their meaning is finally breached. Then the shaking starts, deep inside his chest. He has to remind himself to breathe. He looks around their hotel suite – plush carpet, a hot tub, and a gorgeous view of the bay – and doesn't see any of it. _

_It's Audrey's voice calling his name that brings him back. She has just come out of the shower and she's wrapped in a fluffy white robe with the hotel logo embroidered on it, using a towel on her wet hair. She is as he likes her best – without makeup and smiling. But when she sees the look on his face and his fingers wrapped around his phone in a vise grip, her smile melts away._

"_What is it?" she asks. She stops drying her hair, her arms falling to her sides, the towel dangling from her right hand._

_He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out, so he closes it again. He feels a little like a fish out of water, like he's drowning on dry land._

"_Walter," she says, taking a step towards him. Her eyes are wild and he can see that she's afraid to ask, to put a voice to the one thing that has been eating at her since they pulled out of their driveway several hours before._

_She is worried about Drake – he hadn't been feeling well in the last week and despite the fact that Walter had been convinced the boy was faking, he couldn't convince his wife. She knows something is wrong with her baby and the look in Walter's eyes confirms that she's right._

_Except that it's much worse than she even imagined._

_When he tells her, all she can say is, "No." She fumbles for the bed, settles onto it, the fingers of her left hand gripping the coverlet tightly. She stares out the sliding glass doors, into the night sky that hangs over the dark bay below, which is speckled with the lights of pleasure boats and cargo ships._

_Finally, in a voice in search of hope, she says, "'Tried'. He said 'tried', right?" She looks over at her husband, who hasn't moved, can't. He can see the tears welling in her eyes and blinks back his own. "That means he didn't… That he's not…" But she can't say it._

_But Walter knows what she means. It's the same lifeline that's keeping him tethered as well._

_It means he's not dead._

His heart broke again when he saw Josh – the cracks in his son's foundation were plainly visible in his light brown eyes and he was on the verge of collapse when he and Audrey arrived. He wouldn't tell them what happened, kept the knowledge secreted away in that place inside of him where he keeps all his pain. The doctor told them the facts in that sterile, detached way that's supposed to lessen the sting but doesn't.

Walter is well aware of Josh's fear of hospitals, knows the reasons behind that fear. Walter, single father, had suffered a heart attack when Josh was ten years old, collapsing on the kitchen floor while he was making dinner for the two of them. The boy who had never had a mother had been terrified that he'd lose his father, too, as he sat alone for hours in the hospital waiting room until his grandmother had finally arrived to be with him. Josh was nearly a man now, but that frightened little boy was who Walter had seen peering out of Josh's eyes when they had found him in the waiting area outside the ICU.

The glass in front of him is fogged up from his breath and he reaches up and wipes it away. He's not sure how long he's been standing there, but it's gotten dark. And it's still raining; the outside lights have halos around them.

He knows he can't stay here – guilt is already starting to gnaw at the back of his mind. It's not fair that he's found a retreat from the raw horror of the real world while his wife is in the heart of it, all alone. Except that even six floors down, surrounded by glass and plants and an immense room that's designed to be full of light, he still feels it – the oppressive sensation of helplessness.

He can't change a thing – he can't take that blade out of Drake's hands; he can't hide the pills the ER doctors pumped from Drake's stomach; he can't take the anguish from his wife's eyes or the emptiness from Josh's; he can't outrun the grief that has spread throughout his body like a cancer and settled in his bones.

All he can do is wait.

* * *

The pavement's still wet when Josh turns down his street, puddles gathered along the curbs like rubberneckers behind police barricades. Rainfall is threatening again, but for the moment, the setting sun peeks out from behind the clouds, casting elongated shadows across the street's surface. A rosy glow softens the sharp edges of the houses along the block.

Josh's heart is racing when he pulls into the driveway, nudging the big SUV behind his and Drake's Accord. Turning off the engine, he stares through the windshield at the quiet house. It's hard to believe, looking at it now, that less than 24 hours ago, his brother nearly died inside of it. It looks so _ordinary._

He heads towards the house as the first drops of rain begin to fall – softly at first, falling with muted sounds as if they know that Josh prefers the quiet. He steps onto the porch and slides his key in the door, finding that the door is unlocked. He hadn't stopped to lock it on his way out of the house last night.

His head is throbbing with fatigue – a dull ache that has taken up residence behind his eyes. Walking into the living room, he drops his keys on the coffee table and sinks into the couch with a sigh, resting his head along the back and closing his eyes. He hadn't wanted to leave the hospital – what if Drake wakes up? – but once he was outside in the parking lot, he couldn't wait to get as far from there as possible.

Nothing good in his life has ever happened in a hospital, including his birth, when his mother died bringing him into the world. Things like that weren't supposed to happen in the 20th century; women didn't die in childbirth. But his had, setting a precedent for events to come.

Her name was Rebecca Watson Nichols. She had black hair and green eyes and small, even teeth that peeked out through full lips when she smiled – Walter had shown him pictures of her. She had an infectious laugh, his dad told him, and a sharp sense of humor. And she loved him, Walter had assured him, even before he was born. Joshua had been her choice for a name; Walter, in all his masculine pride, had wanted to name their son Walter, Jr.

Josh loved his name; he thought of it as a gift from his mother.

"Goodbye, Josh."

He's almost asleep when he hears those words, clear as day, in his brother's voice. He sits up and looks around towards the front door, expecting to see Drake standing there. He isn't, of course. But then it hits him – Drake said those words to him last night, as Josh was leaving for his date. And it had been bothering him ever since, though he couldn't put his finger on it until now.

Goodbye. Not 'bye' or 'see ya' or 'later' or any other variation of the expression, but _goodbye._ Josh can't remember Drake ever saying that before; it's much too formal a word, much too final.

But, looking back now, Josh realizes that _final _is what Drake was going for.

He can see his brother standing there in the doorway that leads to the stairs, can see the crooked smile and the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tilt of his head and the way his hair nearly falls into his eyes. He can see his unusually roomy jeans and the brown long-sleeve t-shirt with the stylized peace sign across the chest. And it suddenly occurs to him that those clothes are still where Drake left them, stacked neatly on the toilet in the upstairs bathroom.

Josh stands suddenly, the sudden movement making him light-headed. He pauses a moment, breathing in slowly, until his vision stabilizes. He hasn't had anything but coffee in the last several hours and his stomach grumbles rebelliously, but he can't think about that now. All he knows is that he can't leave things the way they are; he can't let his parents find the evidence. He didn't tell them about what happened, about the details – not because he couldn't find the words, but because he couldn't be the one to put that indelible picture into their heads.

So he heads for the stairs, climbing them with effort, his hand sliding along the rail for balance. When he reaches the top of the stairs he sees that the bathroom light is still on, bathing the hallway in warm yellow light. The door isn't closed, of course. Not anymore. Josh has already opened it and found all the terrible things that were hiding behind it.

He stands in the open doorway. The stillness is what strikes him the most. Everything is just as it was – the bath mat lies in a twisted heap on the floor; the shower curtain hangs half in, half out of the bathtub; Drake's clothes lie in a neat stack on the toilet; the towels Josh used to bandage his brother's wrists are where the EMTs left them when they tore them away to assess the damage – snaked along the seam where the wall meets the floor. Streaks of dried blood stand out against the light green terrycloth. There's not a lot of blood, he sees, and the truth of what that means slices through him.

He doesn't touch any of it, just stares at it, detached, as if he is looking at the set of some macabre play. Snatches of memory flash across his mind – the shower running and how empty it sounded; the water dripping from the edge of the mirror; the way his brother's dark lashes stood out against his cheeks; the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears.

He begins peeling off his own clothes before he even knows he's doing it, dropping them carelessly on the floor around him. The itchy feeling he gets when he's been wearing the same clothes for too long becomes more acute and he hurries, tearing at his clothes like they're on fire. When he's done, he stands there among the detritus of a nightmare, his breaths crowding against each other. Finally, he walks to the shower and turns it on, closing his eyes against the sound, trying to forget the last time he heard it.

But he doesn't _want_ to forget, knows he couldn't anyway even if he tried. What he wants is to understand, to know what it was like to be inside Drake's head in the moments before he plunged that blade into his arm, before he watched his life slowly slithering away.

He steps into the shower and pulls the curtain closed behind him. The water is hot, hotter than he likes it, and he automatically reaches down to adjust it, then stops. This is how hot the water was when Drake stood in that exact spot the previous night. If Drake could stand it, so can he. He steps further into the stream, until the water hits the top of his head and cascades down his face.

He has so many questions for his brother. _How long did you stand here before you settled down to die? Did you agonize over it or were you at peace? Were you scared? _

Closing his eyes, he leans his hands against the side of the shower and lets his head dangle between his arms. The hot water runs off his shoulders and down his neck, falling in a thin stream from his nose. A hard sound snaps him out of his reverie. He's heard it before and knows what it is. When he opens his eyes, he sees it, right where it had come to rest.

The utility knife is bouncing against the bottom of the tub as the swirling water pushes it around the drain.

Josh bends to pick it up, holding it in his left hand. He hefts it; it feels solid and heavy and dangerous. The blade is pushed all the way out and Josh slides it back in, then out again, repeating the motion several times, mesmerized by how easily the slider moves under his thumb.

_Did you do it standing up?_ he asks. _No_, he answers. _You would've needed more leverage. You were sitting when you did it._

So Josh sits, easing himself down into the corner of the tub where he found Drake, grimacing as he does so. When he draws his knees up, he finally sees just how badly he banged his right knee. It's bruised and slightly swollen, purplish-black in color.

Transferring the knife to his right hand, he rests the back of his left wrist on his left knee and studies it. He can see his veins clearly, prominent against the thin skin. Incongruously, he remembers reading somewhere that veins look blue because the skin filters out the red component of reflected light. He can actually see his pulse beat, strong and steady.

He slides out the blade and brings it to his wrist, pressing the edge to his skin, feeling the pressure. His hands are shaking, but he ignores them. _Did it hurt?_ he wonders. _Or was it more like euphoria?_

He presses harder, until a pinprick of blood appears, which is quickly washed away. The pain is sharp, but lasts for just a second. He does it again, pulling the blade down a few millimeters, then a few more. Dark red blood oozes out and runs down his arm and he watches it passively as it gets washed away, pulled by the flow of water towards the drain.

_How long did it take until the water ran clear?_ _Were you awake for all of it or did your brain mercifully pull you into unconsciousness before it stopped? _

So many questions.

He goes to pull at the knife again, then stops. He's hiccupping, his breath catching raggedly in his throat. He's been crying and hadn't even noticed. He drops the knife like it's suddenly hot and follows it with his eyes as it slides to the end of the tub.

_Did you cry? Or were you just glad that it would all finally be over?_ He presses his hands to his eyes and concentrates on his breathing. He'll never understand. Not ever. Even if Drake described to him every last excruciating detail, he'll never understand.

Because he doesn't know what it's like to want to die.

* * *

Her call had come as Josh was standing in his and Drake's bedroom, contemplating the orderliness of his brother's side – another unspoken message from Drake, no doubt, about the finality of his intentions. Megan had sounded annoyed as she said, "Where have you boobs been? I've been calling all day." He silently endured her special brand of sarcasm and had agreed without comment to her demand that he bring her iPod to her. His acquiescence had taken her aback; she had been prepared, as usual, to resort to blackmail if necessary.

They're currently sitting along the curb in front of Katie Stinson's house, where Megan was spending the weekend. Her eyes are as big as he's ever seen them, like they can't get enough light to focus. She's sitting across the console from him, nestled in the passenger's seat of the Explorer. The SUV had been her first clue that something was amiss; it was supposed to be in San Francisco.

"When?" she finally asks, looking over at him.

"Last night," he answers her. He glances out the passenger window towards the Stinson home, a pang of envy coursing through him at the sight of the warmly lit windows. _Their_ lives are still intact.

She looks down at her hands, which are folded, palms up, on her lap. "Last night," she repeats. "That was a long time ago." The implication is crystal clear – why wasn't she told sooner?

Josh doesn't know what to say to that, says simply, "I'm sorry."

But she's shaking her head fiercely. "I hate him," she whispers angrily.

"Don't say that."

"I do. I hope he dies." But the tears that come, suddenly and violently, tell a different story.

Josh reaches out a hand to her, but she pulls away, out of reach. She presses herself against the door, sobbing. He pulls his hand back and turns to stare out the windshield. She doesn't want comfort; she wants to _feel_ it. She wants to hold this new reality in her hands and shape it into something less terrifying.

Her tears subside after a few minutes and he can see her wipe at her eyes. He turns his head to look at her – she's staring out the passenger window and he can hear her breath hitching in her throat. "Megs," he ventures.

"I didn't mean it," she says softly.

Josh nods. "I know."

Another silent moment passes until all that can be heard inside the vehicle is the sound of their breathing. He's staring out the windshield again when he hears her shift beside him. He can feel her eyes on him, those wide eyes hungry for light.

Her question, one word spoken in a tremulous voice, makes him cringe; it's the one thing he wants to know more than anything.

"Why?"

He closes his eyes, gripping the steering wheel tightly. He doesn't have the answer.

* * *

It's dark outside, he notices, as his eyes seek the window. And it's raining, the water drops on the glass giving the outside lights a kaleidoscope effect. He doesn't know what time it is, but the dim lights inside the room tell him it's late. And he's alone, for which he's grateful.

He's lying on his left side; he's been awake for a while. He looks at his hands, which are lying on the bed in front of him, just below the pillow. The heart rate monitor covers the tip of his left middle finger, the wire snaking along the back of his hand and up his arm. His fingers are cold and he flexes them, wincing at the tugging pain that barks back from his battered wrists. The sensation almost makes him laugh – _now_ it hurts, he thinks. _Now, _after the fact. When all he wanted was to _stop_ hurting.

The bandages on his wrists are white and wrapped tightly, sealed with tape by expert hands. He reaches with his right hand, worrying the corner of the tape on his left wrist with his index finger and thumb. He picks at it until the edge of the tape rolls back, until there's enough to grasp between his fingers. He pulls at it, unwinding it slowly, watching as it tugs at the gauze that's protecting his wounds.

When the tape is off, he throws it over the side of the bed to the floor; it makes a soft sound when it lands. He pulls away the gauze; it sticks, caught on the stitches and he tugs it away, joining the tape on the floor.

He stares at them – the horrible evidence of his failure. They're red and angry, slightly inflamed along the edges. There are two cuts, each about three inches long, each dotted with heavy black stitches holding the tattered edges of his skin together, trying to make him whole again. Gingerly he touches them, the rough sutures scratchy against his fingertips.

So this is what his pain looks like from the outside. He's disappointed, really. It seems so much uglier inside his head.

Anger surges through him, heating his skin, and he begins trying to tear his stitches out. But he can't get a hold of them – his fingers are too big and the stitching is too tight. So he brings his wrist to his mouth, digs into his skin with his incisors, his teeth finally finding purchase. He jerks his head back and can feel the sutures begin to tear through his skin.

The taste of blood is like a handful of pennies on his tongue.

He pulls his wrist away – blood seeps from the re-opened cut, and he watches it impassively as it trails slowly down his arm. It pools in the crook of his elbow, then overflows onto the sheets, dark red soaking into stark white.

He's calm again, the anger dissipating with each breath that pushes past his lips. The thread is hanging loose now and he grasps it in his fingers, tugging. The next stitch pops open, then the next one. It hasn't been long enough for the skin to fuse together and the wound opens up like a flower. Beads of blood push through to the open air, joining others in the flow. It hurts and tears sting his eyes, but he doesn't stop. He keeps tugging until all the stitches are gone and the stain below his elbow blooms like a rose in spring.

A wedge of light slices across the room. A nurse, making her nightly rounds, pops her head inside. She sees that he's awake, begins to smile at him before she realizes what's happening. Her hand goes to her mouth and she pauses, shocked, for the briefest of moments before her professional training kicks in. In a second, she's next to him, snapping on a pair of latex gloves in one expert movement and seizing his left arm. She doesn't speak to him, but presses the button next to his bed, calling for help, her voice urgent. She then grabs his other arm, holding them both tightly.

"No…" he says, but she doesn't seem to hear him. She's not looking at him. "Stop. Please."

He looks up at her, his eyes pleading with her to just let him go. She finally makes eye contact with him, a brief exchange of glances, and she tries to smile reassuringly at him but fails in the attempt. Another person bursts into the room, then another. The room suddenly feels crowded and Drake starts to panic.

"No!" he yells, digging his heels into the mattress, trying to get away, this sudden burst of strength fueled by pure adrenaline. Hands seize his feet, others seize his shoulders. The nurse still holds his arms. "No!" He's sobbing now and on the verge of hyperventilation. A man – a doctor, if the white coat is any indication – speaks softly to a nurse across the bed and she injects something into Drake's IV.

Seconds later, Drake gives up the fight, no longer able to move his limbs. He sinks down into the bed, his labored breathing eventually slowing as the sedative takes effect. He can feel tears pooling in his eyes and he blinks to clear them away, but his eyelids are heavy and stay closed after the second blink.

When he wakes up again, he'll be in restraints.

* * *

_Please review. Thank you. (And a THANK YOU to everyone who has so far. If I haven't responded, please know I appreciate your encouragement!)_


	8. Bad Dates & Resolutions

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
_**DISCLAIMER:** _I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** Just a little light-hearted fun (well, most of it!) to break up the angst a bit. But have no fear, the next chapter is halfway done as I type this. Enjoy!_

* * *

_

_Chapter 8: Bad Dates & Resolutions_

_Josh had always known his brother was vain, but this was bordering on the ridiculous. Drake had managed to decide which pair of jeans he was going to wear (although if you asked Josh, they all looked the same) and which pair of shoes was going to have the pleasure of encasing his feet, but he was still debating on what shirt was going to complete his carefully chosen ensemble. He had already tried on and carelessly discarded so many, it looked like the clothes fairy had exploded inside their room._

_Standing at the far end of the couch, arms folded across his chest, he said, frustrated, "Just _pick_ one already!" He glanced down at his watch. They were supposed to pick up their dates in twenty minutes and Drake's fashion crisis was going to make them late._

_Drake cast a dark but amused look over his shoulder as he yanked yet another shirt over his head and tossed it up onto his bed, where it caught on the ladder and hung there precariously for a second before falling to the floor to join several others in an ever-growing pile. "It's New Year's Eve, Josh," he said matter-of-factly, as if that would explain everything. He dug in his dresser drawer for another shirt. Josh was amazed there were any left._

"_So?" Josh asked. "I got dressed and ready in ten minutes."_

"_I can see that," Drake quipped as he turned to face Josh. His smirk quickly disappeared as he pulled his latest shirt choice over his head, the static electricity making his hair halo briefly around his head._

_Josh was just about to protest – he thought he looked good – when Drake asked, "How 'bout this one?" He smoothed his hands down the front of a dark red long-sleeve t-shirt with a black abstract design across the chest._

"_You look fine," Josh answered, then clenched his jaw when he saw Drake's face fall. "No, wait!" he added, gesturing desperately when he spied Drake's fingers curl around the bottom of the shirt and start to lift it up. "You didn't let me finish. Uh…" he said, fumbling. "What I meant to say was that this shirt only confirms what is already a well-established fact: that you are the best-looking and best-dressed boy at Belleview High. Maybe even San Diego. And you'd be a fool to wear anything else." He had to make a conscious effort not to roll his eyes when he had finished._

_Drake just grinned. "I'll be the judge of that." He walked over to Josh's side of the room and stood looking at himself in the full-length mirror that hung behind the door of the armoire. "Whereas I doubt your sincerity," he said, admiring his reflection, "you're right. I do look good."_

"'_Whereas'?" Josh asked, his eyebrows raised._

_Drake just laughed. "You like that one, huh? That's one of those words that Mr. Bradford likes to use." The mention of the teacher's name made him frown slightly; any thought of school when he was on vacation tended to do that._

_Ever since Thanksgiving break, Drake had been attending his twice-weekly tutoring sessions dutifully, though under protest. His mom had been right; it hadn't been as bad as he thought it would be. But that wasn't saying much since he had thought it would be just slightly more fun than yanking his fingernails out with a pair of pliers. Thankfully, the creepiness he thought he'd heard in the teacher's voice after the meeting with his parents seemed to have just been in his imagination. Mr. Bradford had been nothing but friendly and professional in their subsequent meetings._

"_Well, I'll say this about all the tutoring you're getting – your vocabulary sure has improved," Josh said, smiling._

"_And that's not all," Drake responded, stepping off the platform and grabbing his jacket off the back of the desk chair. "I can name all the U.S. presidents. In order."_

_Josh chuckled as he headed towards the door. "Wow, I'm impressed. Especially considering you used to think that George Washington discovered America."_

_Drake was on Josh's heels as they headed towards the stairs. "Ha ha," he said sarcastically. "Hold on a sec," he added, side-stepping into the bathroom._

"_Come on," Josh wheedled, standing outside the partially closed door. "You can pee later. We're late."_

"_Don't get your boxers in a twist," Drake said from inside the bathroom. "I'll be right out."_

_Josh looked at his watch again, then tapped his foot impatiently. He counted to sixty in his head. Then to thirty. When he didn't hear the tell-tale sound of urination, he pushed open the door. Drake was just standing there, grinning._

_Quickly assessing the situation, Josh said, annoyed, "You didn't really have to go, did you?"_

"_Nope." Drake's brown eyes sparkled mischievously._

"_You're just trying to annoy me, aren't you?"_

"_Yup."_

"_Can we go now?"_

"I'm _ready. I'm waitin' on _you_." That grin again._

"_Ulcers," Josh said, shaking his head as he turned towards the stairs. "You're gonna give me ulcers."_

"_Yeah, but you love it," Drake replied lightly, following Josh downstairs._

_Josh looked at his watch again as he closed the front door behind them. "Ten minutes, Drake. We're gonna be late."_

_Snatching the keys from his brother's hand, he met Josh's eyes and smiled. "No we're not."_

* * *

"_What time is it?" Drake whispered covertly to Josh, who was sitting to his right in the booth._

_Josh looked at his watch, trying not to make it too obvious. "Ten fifteen," he whispered back._

_Drake stifled a groan. He was hoping it was closer to midnight so that he could dutifully kiss his date to ring in the new year and then take her home, where he wouldn't have to listen to her talk anymore._

_Her incessant chatter was giving him a headache; she hadn't stopped talking since she got in the car two and a half hours ago. He was convinced his ears would start bleeding soon. Sitting across from him now, she was still talking._

"…_couldn't believe it! I mean, we don't look _that _much alike. Like, her nose has a little bump right here," she said, pointing to the bridge of her nose, "and mine doesn't. Besides," she added, jutting out her bottom lip in a pout, "my boobs are bigger than hers." She was talking about her twin sister, who was sitting right next to her._

"_Nuh uh!" her sister exclaimed indignantly._

"_Yes huh!"_

"_No they're _not!

"_Fine. Let's ask the boys." As one, they turned to face Drake and Josh, pushing their chests out. "Whose are bigger? And be honest," she said, giggling._

_Their names were Jessica and Jennifer Morgan. Jessica was Drake's date, Jennifer was Josh's. Dating identical twins had seemed like a good idea, but now Drake wasn't so sure. "Uh…" he floundered, trying to keep his eyes on their faces. "I think…I'm thirsty," he said, then reached for his drink and wrapped his lips around his straw, taking a long sip. "What do _you_ think, Josh?" he asked around the straw, gazing at his brother out of the corner of his eye._

_His brother shot him a black look and banged his knee hard against Drake's under the table. Then he plastered on a smile and looked across the table at the girls. "I think you're both very pretty and I can see how it would be easy to confuse the two of you," he replied evenly, ever the diplomat._

"_A light switch would confuse those two," Drake muttered, looking down into his glass._

_There went Josh's knee again._

_Jessica looked at Drake, her blue eyes guileless. "What did you say, Drake?"_

_Drake looked up from his glass. "Oh," he said, thinking fast. "I was just saying that I think we should be leaving soon." He smiled. "You know, if we want to get a good spot to watch the fireworks." He could see Josh shaking his head beside him._

_When the girls had gone to the restroom, the boys headed outside to wait for them. Drake turned to Josh once they were outside and said hopefully, "Let's ditch 'em."_

_Josh just smiled. "We can't."_

"_Why not?" Drake patted his pocket. "I've got the keys."_

"_Drake," Josh said. "It wouldn't be right. Besides," he continued, smiling wider, "mine's not so bad."_

_Drake smirked, "That's only because her sister won't let her get a word in edgewise. I'll bet she's just as bad. I mean, they're _identical_, right?"_

"_Hey," Josh replied, "this was your idea, remember?" He altered his voice, made it higher-pitched. "_'Twins, _Josh. We blew it the first time, remember? But now we've got another chance.'"_

_Drake had no argument. "Yeah, well. The next time I say I have a good idea, smack me, okay?"_

_Josh laughed. "Can I get that in writing?"_

"_God, my head hurts," Drake lamented, rubbing his temples._

"_It, like, won't be much longer. It'll be, like, midnight soon and then we can, like, go home." Josh chuckled._

"_Good," Drake muttered, sharing a knowing look with his brother. "'Cause if I, like, have to listen to much more of this, I'll, like, have to kill myself."_

"_Here they come," Josh said quickly and pasted a wide smile on his face._

"_Did you guys, like, miss us?" Jessica asked as they came out the door. She and her sister both giggled._

"_Like a contagious disease," Drake muttered under his breath as Jessica hooked her arm through his._

_Josh and Jennifer were in front of them and he heard his brother stifle a laugh, smoothly turning it into a cough._

"_What?" Jessica asked and Drake suppressed a sigh._

"_I said I hope you don't freeze," he replied, not looking at her. "It's getting kinda cold out." Well, cold for San Diego, at least. _

"_That's what I have _you _for," she said, gripping his upper arm. "To keep me warm."_

"_Great," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster._

_As they walked to the car, he only hoped she was a good kisser._

* * *

_She wasn't. When midnight finally, mercifully came, she swooped down upon him like a hawk after a squirrel and shoved her tongue so far into his mouth that he thought she was trying to clean his molars with it. He didn't even close his eyes; there hadn't been time. So he just stared up at her, terrified; she was so close that he couldn't even focus. She finally released him and sat up, grinning down at him, her lips glistening in the light of the fireworks popping overhead._

"_Happy New Year!" she exclaimed over the din._

_Drake sat up and ran the back of his hand slowly across his mouth. He tasted strawberry lip gloss and Pep-O-Mint Life Savers, which she had been eating…well, like candy in anticipation of the Main Event. "Happy New Year," he mumbled in return, casting a glance over at his brother._

_Josh seemed to have fared better. At least he didn't look traumatized. Drake was jealous. "Well, I guess we should get going," he said, starting to push himself up._

_Jessica grabbed his wrist, tugging him back down, where he landed heavily on his backside with a grunt. "Let's just stay here a while," she said, snaking her arm across his stomach and snuggling against him._

_Drake looked over her head at Josh, who met his gaze from his place on the next blanket over and shrugged. "We'd just be sitting in traffic anyway," Josh said reasonably, a sympathetic look on his face._

_Sighing, Drake surrendered, letting Jessica pull him down onto the blanket, where she rested her head on his right shoulder. His arm curved around her shoulders instinctively. "I'm, like, having a really good time," she whispered and Drake could feel her breath hot against his neck._

"_I'm glad," he said, giving her shoulders a little squeeze as he watched the last of the fireworks. The sky was clear when the bursts of color faded away, revealing a blanket of stars. For a few minutes they laid there quietly, and with her newfound capacity for silence, Drake was just about to amend his opinion of her._

_But then she started talking again. "I remember one New Year's Eve," she started, "when Jen and I were, like, six. We had begged Mom and Daddy to let us stay up, but they said no 'cause it was, like, so late and everything. So we went to bed and pretended to sleep and then when our parents went to bed, we, like, snuck out of our room. We were just gonna go outside to watch the fireworks for a little while and then sneak back to our room without our parents even knowing, but we, like, didn't know that the burglar alarm was on and when we opened the door, it, like, went off…"_

_Drake closed his eyes miserably and tried to tune her out. _George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe…

_She didn't stop talking until he reached Jimmy Carter._

* * *

_The boys were on their way home. Josh was behind the wheel; Drake was slumped next to him with his head resting heavily against the back of the seat, his eyes partially closed against a throbbing headache._

"_Even worse than Liza Tupper?" Josh asked, eyebrows raised, his eyes focused on the road. It was nearing one-thirty in the morning, but the traffic was still fairly heavy. The headlights of cars traveling south periodically illuminated the inside of the Honda. _

"_Even worse than _two_ Liza Tuppers," Drake replied, rolling his head to the side to look at Josh's profile. "I thought she was gonna swallow me." _

_Josh just laughed._

"_What's so funny?" Drake asked, trying to sound annoyed even though he was smiling._

"_Oh, nothing," Josh said, casting a glance at Drake out of the corner of his eye. A droll grin curved his lips. "It's just that I guess they're not so identical after all."_

_Confusion darkened Drake's eyes before a look of understanding replaced it. "Lucky you," he said, smirking._

_The boys fell into an amiable state of non-conversation the rest of the way home. Periodically, Josh would hear Drake sing along to the radio as he gazed out the passenger window. But by the time Josh pulled into their driveway and turned off the ignition, Drake had fallen into complete silence. He looked over at his brother; Drake looked to be asleep – his eyes were closed and his jaw was slack, his mouth hanging open slightly. _

_Josh smiled as he turned to stare out the windshield. Drake liked motion; he liked noise. Josh liked it when it was quiet like this, when the world around him was still and he could hear himself think. Most of the time, it never seemed to last very long._

_Like now. "What are we looking at?" Drake suddenly whispered groggily from beside him, leaning towards Josh and peering through the glass._

_Josh suppressed a smile. "Nothing. I was just enjoying the quiet." He turned his head to meet his brother's eyes across the console._

_Drake just looked at him, automatically opening his mouth to say something snarky, but then closed it again. A small smile crept across his lips. "You know what? You're right," he said, his smile growing wider as he turned in his seat to look out the windshield at the dark house. "After tonight, it _is_ nice to have some peace and quiet."_

_They sat in silence again, the light from the streetlamps filtering through the back window and casting oblong shadows against the front dash. The sound of the Jacobsons' sprinklers coming to life next door was the only thing to be heard. Josh closed his eyes and sighed contentedly._

"_Happy New Year, Josh."_

_The words were spoken softly and hung in the air between them. Josh opened his eyes and looked over at Drake. "You, too," he answered back. He flashed a wide grin. "It's gonna be a great one."_

_Drake nodded as he suppressed a yawn with his hand. "But only after I get two aspirin and a few hours' sleep," he was finally able to say._

_Josh pushed open his door. "Yeah, I'm kinda tired, too," he said, getting out._

"_What do _you _have to be so tired from?" Drake retorted over the roof of the car. "You weren't the one having to pretend to sound interested during five hours of endless talking." Drake shut his car door, the still night air deadening the sound._

_Josh laughed. "So, being insincere is hard work, is it?" he asked, tongue-in-cheek, as he headed up the front walk._

"_You have no idea." As if to prove his point, Drake yawned. "'I collect coins that were made the year I was born. I have, like, 87 quarters, 106 dimes, 98 nickels, and 317 pennies,'" he mimicked as they stepped up onto the front porch._

_Josh stopped just outside the front door, key poised in mid-air, and looked incredulously at his brother. "She _said_ that?" He struggled to keep the laughter out of his voice._

"_And that's not all," Drake replied, nodding vigorously, as if to say _'I _told_ you.' _"She also collects keychains with her name on them and knows all the lyrics to the songs from _High School Musical.

"_My favorite's 'Bop to the Top'," Josh said before he could stop himself. He felt a sudden blush creep up his neck and he busied himself with the deadbolt, making a conscious effort not to look at Drake, whose eyes he felt burning into him._

"_Dude," Drake said, drawing out the word in disbelief._

"_What? Mindy made me watch it," Josh said quickly as he opened the door and disappeared inside, leaving Drake on the doorstep._

"_Uh-huh," Drake countered as he followed Josh inside and closed the front door behind them, turning the deadbolt back into place._

"_Like you've never seen it," Josh said as he walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light, the sudden brightness making them both squint._

_Drake headed for the refrigerator, ducking his head inside and emerging with the milk. "I haven't," he stated evenly, twisting off the cap and tilting the jug to his lips._

"_Yeah, right." Josh held his hand out for the milk._

"_I swear," Drake insisted, passing the jug to his brother. _

_Josh just gave him a look. "If you say so," he said, taking a swig of milk and handing the jug back to Drake._

"_I'll bet you know all the words, too," Drake said dryly. "You and Jessica could sing a duet. Be the next Troy and Gabriella." Then the realization of what he'd just admitted shone in his face and horror widened his eyes._

_Josh pointed at him. "I _knew_ it! You _have_ seen it."_

_Drake bought himself time by taking another drink of milk and then slowly replacing the cap and placing the jug back in the refrigerator. When he turned back around, Josh was still staring at him, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "What?"_

"_Say it," Josh demanded._

"_Say what?" Drake asked. But he already knew._

"_You know."_

"_I have no idea what you're talking about." Drake tried to slip past his brother to the door, but Josh stepped in front of him. He seemed even taller than usual._

"_Yes, you do. Now _say _it." Josh crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Drake, his light brown eyes twinkling._

"_If I say it, will you promise never to mention it again?" Drake asked wearily. He really _was_ tired._

_Josh held up three fingers. "Scout's honor," he quipped._

_Drake rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. He looked directly at his brother. "I, Drake Parker, have seen the movie _High School Musical.

_Grinning in satisfaction, Josh said, "Thank you."_

"_Twice," Drake added, darting past Josh before he could react. He heard his brother laughing behind him._

* * *

_Fifteen minutes later, they were both lying in bed, suddenly too keyed up to fall asleep. "So what's your New Year's resolution?" Josh asked._

"_I don't know," Drake answered. "I haven't really thought about it." He had his hands folded behind his head and was staring at the shadows on the ceiling above his bed._

"_Mine's to get accepted into a good college. Maybe Stanford or USC."_

_Drake flipped over onto his stomach, tucking his pillow under his folded arms as he gazed at his brother across the room. "Why not Yale or Harvard? You know, somewhere far away from here."_

"_You tryin' to get rid of me or something?" Josh asked jokingly, but his voice carried a note of disquiet._

"_I just think you shouldn't limit your options, that's all." Drake spoke softly, but in the quiet room, his voice was clear._

_There was a long pause before Josh finally said, "In-state schools are cheaper."_

_Josh's face was hidden in shadow, but Drake knew his brother was looking at him. He also knew that Josh was a cinch for a scholarship and that the high cost of out-of-state tuition wasn't the reason why Josh wanted to stay in California for college. "Don't worry about me, Josh. I'll be fine."_

_When the response finally came, it was strained, spoken in a hoarse voice. "Yeah, I know." But he didn't sound convinced._

_Silence hung heavily in the air between them. Finally, after a long moment, Drake said, "I guess my resolution would just be to graduate."_

_Josh didn't respond right away and Drake figured he had fallen asleep. But then, very softly, he heard his brother say, "You will."_

_Drake just smiled into the darkness._

* * *

_Across and slightly down the street, a man sat in his dark blue Chevy Suburban staring at the set of windows above the garage of the Parker-Nichols house where just a few minutes before a light had burned. He had had to roll down the driver's window since the dark tinting obstructed his view. On the seat beside him was a set of pocket-sized binoculars. He had seen the boys come home, had watched them talking on the doorstep before disappearing inside. He'd watched as a downstairs light was turned on (the kitchen?) and then turned off again a few minutes later. Then the upstairs light had come on and he knew, _knew_ this was their bedroom. He had watched the shadows play across the curtains, tried to pick out which one belonged to which boy. He was sweating beneath his clothes despite the coolness of the night and he rubbed his itchy palms absently on his jeans._

_He stared at the darkened window for ten minutes, twenty, his mind spinning in endless circles, his pulse throbbing against the collar of his black leather jacket. The sound of a metal trash can being knocked over on the pavement startled him and he turned his eyes towards the sound as a big orange cat skittered away into the shadows._

_The spell was broken. Realizing there was nothing left to see that night, he reached with trembling fingers for the keys that were dangling from the ignition. The headlights blazed down the dark street as he started the engine. Taking a deep breath, he willed himself not to look at the house again, at the dark window that currently hid the object of his latest obsession. Pressing the accelerator gently, being careful not to rev the engine and draw attention to himself, he slid almost silently out of the neighborhood._

_Like he had never even been there at all._

* * *

I hope you liked it! If you did, please let me know. Reviews are very much appreciated. And as always, thank you to everyone who has so far.


	9. Life, If You Can Call It That, Goes On

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
_**DISCLAIMER:** _I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** I planned to have this chapter posted much sooner, but halfway through, my muse abandoned me and I blanked out. I knew where I wanted to go, but I didn't know how to write it. I struggled through to the end (of the chapter), and I hope you like it!

* * *

Chapter 9: Life, If You Can Call It That, Goes On

For Drake, Sunday passes in a drug-induced slumber that is heavy and dreamless. In the predawn hours of Monday morning, this gives way to fitful dreams.

He dreams of hands.

* * *

Josh manages to make it nearly all the way through fourth period before he has to ask Mr. Burgess for a pass to the restroom. He's sitting in the stall at the far end, perched on the edge of the toilet, cradling his head in his hands as he stares down at his feet. The floor is a mixture of blue and white tiles and he keeps trying to find a pattern, something logical in the sequence. But it's random, just like everything else.

He wonders, not for the first time, why he's even at school. It's not like he doesn't have a good excuse for being absent or like a few absences would hurt him academically. But he just couldn't _sit_ anymore waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Drake had been sedated into oblivion and his arms tied to the bed after he tore out his stitches late Saturday night. Josh couldn't stand to look at him anymore, to look at any of them – his mom refusing to look anywhere but at Drake's face, in denial about the rest; his dad hovering uncomfortably, asking incessantly if anyone needs anything; his sister unable to bring herself any closer to Drake than the hospital room door, peering briefly through the narrow pane of reinforced glass before turning away.

So Josh escaped into the one place where no one yet knows that his world has tilted permanently on its axis. But it's a mistake because it's not an escape at all, just more of the same, really. People keep asking him where his brother is. He doesn't know what to tell them.

_Is he sick?_ No. Yes. Not the way you think.

He hears the bell ring, the sound muted by the restroom door. He looks down at his watch – he's been hiding in here for more than 20 minutes. The quiet inside the restroom is broken by the bustling sound of teenage boys making a quick pit stop between classes. He knows he should get up, but he can't move, so he listens to the sounds of flushing urinals and running water and air dryers. Then as quickly as it started, the rush dies away.

The warning bell rings, then the late bell. Still Josh sits, unable to move. He closes his eyes and presses his fingers into them until stars swim across his eyelids.

His dad had driven him back home last evening, offering to stay with him, but Josh had demurred. _Mom needs you,_ Josh had told him. _I'll be alright._ So Walter had relented after giving his son an appraising look across the console and cupping the back of his neck with a warm hand.

"Call me if you need anything," Walter had told him, only leaving after Josh had promised he would.

Josh spent the night ambling through the empty house like a marble in a tin can. He turned all the lights on. And the TV. He ate microwaveable ravioli and an entire box of Little Debbie fudge brownies. He cleaned the upstairs bathroom and dug in the garage for the can of Alpine Frost paint to cover the mark on the wall.

Then he stood in his and Drake's too-neat room and decided he couldn't stand it anymore, re-cluttering it with a fervor that left him panting and sweating in the middle of the mess. He had fallen asleep on the couch, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. When he woke up this morning, he was still in his clothes.

A knock on the stall door startles him. "The late bell has rung, young man," a stern voice says crisply.

Josh stands quickly, his sneakers squeaking against the tile, and bends to pick his backpack off the floor. "I-I know," he mumbles as he opens the door.

Mr. Sanderson, the assistant principal for twelfth grade, stares back at Josh, his eyes wide. "Josh Nichols," he says, surprised. "I didn't expect to find _you_ skipping class." But he says it facetiously, as evidenced by the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth.

But Josh misses the nuances. "It's my lunch period, sir," he says quickly, and he can't keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

The administrator looks at Josh closely, his brown eyes scanning the boy's face. "Is everything alright?" he asks softly.

_No,_ Josh thinks, but doesn't put a voice to it. Instead he says, "I really should be going," and sidesteps past the man.

Mr. Sanderson puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. "Josh," he begins, then presses his lips together to stop the thought. He pauses a moment, deliberating over his next words, then replies, "My office door is always open if you need anything."

Josh nods, a lump rising in his throat. "Thanks," he manages, then hurries from the restroom in the direction of the cafeteria.

* * *

Lunch is almost over. Josh sits alone at a table in the back corner of the outside patio, staring blindly at his Chemistry book, the food on his tray untouched. He's not sure how he's going to get through the last three periods, briefly contemplates leaving before deciding that the action would draw too much attention to himself, would elicit too many questions. The only thing he can do is concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and let his routine carry him through the rest of the day.

"Josh?"

The voice is soft and timid and he looks up from his book to see a pretty brunette girl with wide blue eyes staring down at him. She looks vaguely familiar, but he can't place her. "Do I know you?" he asks and hopes it doesn't sound too harsh. He's not in the mood to talk to anyone.

She shakes her head slightly, pursing her lips. "You're Drake's brother, right?"

The sound of Drake's name makes Josh flinch. "Yeah."

"Good," she states, exhaling sharply as she perches herself on the edge of the bench across from Josh. "My name's Maddie. I've been leaving your brother messages since last week, but he hasn't returned my calls. I've been hoping to catch him at school, but he's been absent since…" She stops suddenly and looks away. "I think he's avoiding me." She looks back at Josh. "Has he said anything to you about me?"

"No," he tells her, his voice not much more than a whisper.

She seems saddened by his answer and her shoulders sink a fraction of an inch. "Well," she says, looking down at her hands, "could you tell him something for me?"

Josh fights the urge to tell her to go away, to tell her that he's not Drake's personal answering service and, besides, his brother won't be returning any calls for a while. Instead, he breathes in slowly and looks at her. There's something in her face – sadness? earnestness? – that makes him say, "Sure."

She draws her lips together in what Josh is certain she thinks is a smile. "Tell him –" she says, then stops. He can hear her inhale deeply, then let it out slowly. "Tell him," she says again and Josh can see her fingers nervously working the edges of the cover of the book beneath her hands. It's one of those homemade covers made from a brown paper grocery bag; the word "Algebra" is drawn in bubble letters along its spine. "I'm not upset about what happened," she finally continues. "I know he didn't mean it. And I'm not gonna tell anyone."

Josh listens, puzzled, and opens his mouth to ask what she's talking about, but decides against it. After a moment, he notices she's stopped talking and is looking back at him in expectant silence.

"Will you?" she asks softly. But her voice carries a note of urgency, like she's had to repeat the question.

"Will I what?" Josh asks absently.

"Tell your brother what I said," she says, standing and gathering her books. She holds them protectively against her chest like a shield.

Josh looks at her absently for a moment, then stands, stuffing his book into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He's nearly a foot taller than she is and he has to look down to meet her gaze. "Yeah," he says. "I'll tell him."

"Thanks," she says, nodding, then turns on her heels and walks away.

He watches her disappear around the corner, staring so long that he's nearly late for class.

* * *

His eyes are racing behind his eyelids and Audrey knows what that means: he's dreaming. She wants to think that his dreams are pleasant, but the beads of sweat that gather along his hairline tell a different story.

She touches the back of his right hand with her fingertips, careful not to touch the clean white bandage that covers his wrist. She's not quite ready to admit the reality of what the bandages hide. Facing the truth of things has left her feeling raw and fragmented; maybe a little denial will do her some good.

So she also trains her eyes not to look at the reinforced nylon strap that snakes over the edge of the mattress and down to where it's hooked to the metal bar beneath the bed. The other end is connected to a soft, lined cuff that wraps around Drake's forearm and limits his range of motion. There's another one just like it on Drake's left arm and Audrey doesn't look at that one, either.

Instead, she concentrates on his hand and the way his skin feels beneath her fingers. It's cold and dry and she curls her fingers around his palm and rubs her thumb along the length of his.

A strangled sound escapes from Drake's throat and Audrey looks at his face. His eyelashes are wet and his lips are dry and parted slightly and she can hear his teeth grinding against each other. He used to do that when he was a child and the dentist had had to give him a mouth guard to wear when he was sleeping. He would routinely forget to put it in before going to bed – whether on purpose or by accident Audrey never quite figured out – and she would always have to slide it between his teeth when she went in to check on him.

She presses the backs of her fingers against his cheek. Drake's eyes fly open at her touch and he jerks his head away, his dark eyes focusing after a moment on her face. He doesn't say anything.

This is the first time since Friday morning that she has seen Drake's eyes open and the sight renders her temporarily speechless. She squeezes his hand and smiles, thinking only to say, "Hi, baby." She reaches for him again, wants to touch his face, but he jerks away again, pressing his head into the pillow to avoid her touch.

"Don't touch me," he says, his voice rusty from non-use, and tries to jerk his hand out of her grasp as well. The strap of the arm restraint snaps against the hollow frame of the bed and his hand falls on the mattress with a _thud._ His eyes flit to the cuff then back to her face.

The look in his eyes dissolves her smile like acid. She sits up straight in her chair and, unable to do what she wants with her hands, decides to fold them neatly on her lap. His stare is unblinking and hard and it unnerves her. She can't take the silence so she says, "I'm so glad you're alright." And she means it but it's the wrong thing to say.

He doesn't respond for a moment, then says, "I'm not." She doesn't know if that means that he's not glad he's alright or whether it means that he's not alright. And she's afraid to ask, so she doesn't.

She keeps her eyes on his face, but she can hear him test the strength of his restraints, tugging on one arm and then the other. The metal of the adjuster loops _ting_ against the bed frame.

"These your idea?" he asks icily and the question makes her close her eyes to hide her tears.

"No," she whispers, shaking her head, wringing her hands in her lap. She wants to reach out for him, but she can't bear being rebuffed again. "I'm…" she says, looking up at him with wet eyes. "I'm sorry."

Drake clenches his jaw at her words and bites back the harsh response that springs to his lips. The residual effects of the drugs cling to the edges of his brain and he starts once again to feel heavy. He looks at his mother, then looks away. He hates her, he realizes suddenly. He doesn't want to, but there it is. "Go away," he says.

"Drake." Her voice is fragile and thin, like filament.

"I don't want you here." He doesn't want to look at her, knows that if he does, he'll say something he'll regret.

"I won't leave you," she whispers and he can hear the tattered edges of her voice begin to unravel.

Drake takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Don't make me say it," he says so softly she almost doesn't hear him.

But she does and she says, trying to help, "You can tell me anything."

He turns his head to look at her, his dark eyes scanning her face. "I hate you," he finally says, evenly and without emotion. He can see that he's wounded her and he's glad. He _wants_ her to hurt.

Her mouth works in horrified silence, his words slicing through her like a machete. Tears well in her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks.

"Get out," he tells her, the embers of his anger glowing brighter with each word.

But she doesn't move, can't. Her despair works like an anchor, keeping her in place.

"Get out!"

Her chair slides back, as if propelled by the force of his anger. She grips the armrests. "Please don't do this." But she's not sure she's speaking out loud.

He struggles to sit up, his chest heaving with the effort. "Get the fuck out!" he screams at her. "I don't want you here! I hate you! I hate you!"

Walter bursts through the door. "What's –" he begins, then stops when he takes in the scene: his son sweating and screaming, struggling against his restraints; his wife pale and sobbing, standing next to the bed.

Drake turns his attention to Walter. "Get her out of here! Get her out!"

A nurse pushes past Walter in the doorway and rushes to the side of Drake's bed. She grabs hold of his IV and lifts a syringe towards the intake valve.

"No," Audrey says, her voice shaky but stronger. She looks at her son, whose voice has gone quiet, but whose eyes still speak volumes. He's panting, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. "That won't be necessary. I'm going." She looks at the nurse, who, after a beat, lowers the syringe. "Thank you," she says softly.

She finds the strength to walk around the bed to the door, reaching for her husband's outstretched hand and holding it tightly. She turns one last time to her son, who has followed her departure with his eyes. "If hating me helps you," she whispers as something cracks inside of her, "then hate me all you want."

Then she walks out of the room without looking back.

* * *

Josh is in his car, staring out the windshield. The keys hang from the ignition untouched. The student parking lot has long since emptied, but still he sits. There's nowhere to go. He's not scheduled to work today. The prospect of going home is not appealing, the prospect of going to the hospital is even less so.

He's thinking about Maddie. Drake never mentioned her. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean anything; Drake dates so many girls that he doesn't even remember all their names. Or calls them by the wrong names. So maybe he _did_ mention her and he called her Maggie or Mary or something.

Except Josh has the feeling that Drake would remember this girl. _"I know he didn't mean to,"_ she had said. Didn't mean to do what?

It's probably unimportant. But Josh can't get her words out of his head. _"And I'm not gonna tell anyone."_ Tell anyone about what?

More questions. That's all he needs.

Someone taps on the driver's side window, causing Josh to jump. When he looks to his left, he sees Mr. Bradford smiling through the glass at him. The teacher motions for Josh to roll down the window. It's an older car and has manual windows and Josh reaches down to turn the crank.

When it's about halfway down, Mr. Bradford says through the opening, "Car trouble?" He's smiling widely and Josh isn't sure why the prospect seems to please the man so much.

"No, sir," Josh answers simply, studying the man. He's wearing an old Padres cap and has a red messenger bag slung crossways over his chest.

"Enjoying the view, then," the teacher says, casting a look in the direction of the school, which is what Josh sees when he looks through his windshield.

Josh sighs. He just wants somewhere where he can think, but it doesn't look like he's going to get it here. "Actually," he says, starting the car, "I was just leaving."

"I see your brother was absent again today," Mr. Bradford says suddenly, a slight edge creeping into his voice. "I hope he's alright."

Josh's fingers flex around the steering wheel. "He's, uh, not feeling well," Josh replies, fighting to keep his voice even.

Mr. Bradford smiles. "I hope he's not avoiding me," he says and Josh is struck by the fact that he's the second person that day to say that about Drake.

But this time Josh asks why.

The teacher pauses, taken aback by the question, and something flashes in his eyes – something dark that disappears so quickly that Josh misses it. "He had a term paper due last week," Mr. Bradford says nonchalantly, shrugging. "It's worth ten percent of his grade."

He seems to be implying that Drake skipped an entire week of school because of an unfinished term paper. Josh knew better than anyone that that was ridiculous. If Drake hadn't done it, he would have simply taken the zero or photocopied a reference book and turned it in. But he doesn't say any of this. All he wants to do is leave.

"Look, Mr. Bradford," he says impatiently, his head starting to throb. "I don't know when Drake will be back at school."

Mr. Bradford's gaze sharpens and he curls the fingers of his left hand around the top edge of the window. "Is he really that sick?" He actually sounds concerned, Josh thinks, surprised.

Josh debates how much he should reveal, settles on, "He's in the hospital."

"Oh my god," the teacher whispers and covers his mouth with his right hand. He's still holding on to the window and Josh can see the man's knuckles go white. "What's wrong with him?"

But Josh ignores the question. "I've really gotta go," he says, putting the car in reverse.

"Wait," Mr. Bradford says and lets go of the window. "At least tell me which hospital." The note of pleading in the man's voice strikes a false note with Josh and he decides not to answer.

What he doesn't know is that he's revealed too much already.

* * *

_Reviews, of course, are always appreciated. Thank you. :o)_


	10. Frayed

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N: _**I apologize for the nearly two week hiatus with this story. It was unintentional; my muse just decided to take a long siesta. But it's back now!

**_A/N 2:_** Reader beware - the darkness creeps in again a bit at the end of this chapter. A teensy bit of explicit stuff, but not too bad. And just to warn you ahead of time: the "past" chapters will start getting darker from now on. I'm going to start kicking this story up a notch.

_

* * *

__Chapter 10: Frayed_

_Drake's hand was beginning to cramp. He glanced up at the clock that hung mockingly over the door; he had twenty minutes left and still nearly two questions left on his exam. It was a strange feeling, really, to be worried about running out of time to complete an exam. Usually, he was done with time to spare and spent the remaining time daydreaming or formulating possible song lyrics inside his head._

_But today, he actually knew more than just enough to write a few general sentences and had apparently gotten a little carried away. The tutoring in history was working, he thought. Now all he needed was a little help with time management._

_He felt someone staring at him and turned his head to find Mr. Bradford watching him. When their eyes met, the man smiled slightly and nodded at Drake. Drake's response was to look away and focus his attention back on his paper. Flexing his fingers, he picked up his pen and went on to the next question: "List three impacts the assassination of Abraham Lincoln had on the reunification of the United States after the Civil War using appropriate evidence to support your conclusions."_

_Drake pressed the tip of his pen against the paper and started writing, "Abraham Lincoln's assassination had three major impacts on the reunification" – he had to refer back to the question for the correct spelling – "of the United States after the Civil War…"_

_He was really getting into it, his brain working faster than his hand could write, when his train of thought was derailed by the unthinkable – the chirping of his cell phone inside his pocket. Jumping in his seat, his pen rolled off the desk and bounced to the floor, scooting a good distance away. Drake could feel the eyes of his classmates on him and heard a few grumbles percolate around the classroom as he dug quickly in his pocket for his phone. Pulling it out, he held it under his desk and opened it up, pressing the IGNORE button with his thumb as he glanced at the number. It wasn't a number he recognized; it didn't even have a San Diego area code. Wrong number._

"Mr._ Parker."_

Crap._ Looking up, he was startled to find the teacher standing next to his desk, staring down at him sternly. "Sorry, Mr. B," Drake said and noticed the flash of annoyance in the man's eyes at his use of the nickname. "I guess I forgot to turn off the ringer this morning." He tried to look sheepish, but it came out looking more like amusement._

_Mr. Bradford, however, was _not_ amused. He held out his hand. "Hand it over, Mr. Parker."_

"_But –" Drake began._

"_You've already disrupted your classmates enough, don't you think?" Mr. Bradford interrupted harshly, continuing to hold his hand out. "The phone, please. Now."_

_Drake pursed his lips in dismay, then placed the phone reluctantly into Mr. Bradford's palm. He saw the man's fingers close around it tightly, then heard him say softly, "You'll get it back this afternoon."_

_Clenching his jaw, Drake just nodded, watching in silence as the teacher made his way back down the aisle towards his desk. As his classmates settled back into concentration mode, Drake stared back at his exam. Remembering that his pen had fallen to the floor, he searched for it and found it a few feet away, halfway beneath the seat of Amber Locke's desk._

_It was out of his reach, but he wasn't about to tap Amber on the shoulder and ask her for it – not since she actually slapped him (slapped him!) across the face and called him a pervert about a month ago. Drake still didn't see what the big deal was, anyway. All he did was _maybe_ ogle her mom _a little bit_ when he saw her lounging by the family pool in a bikini. (Bikinis in December. God, he loved San Diego.) She should've been flattered; it was meant as a compliment. And in his defense, Mrs. Locke _was_ hot. His cheek had been red for a good hour after that slap._

_So no, he wasn't going to ask her. He'd just get it himself. Sliding down in his seat until his chin was level with the edge of the desk, he reached with his left foot towards the pen, holding himself steady with his hands. The pen was still just out of reach, so he slid down a little more until he could actually see under his desk, could see the shirttails of the kid in front of him poking through the opening in the back of his chair. He stretched his foot a little farther – he almost had it. Pressing with the toe of his boot, he started to carefully drag the pen back towards him, but at the last second, the pen squirted out from beneath his shoe and shot a few inches forward, hitting Amber in the back of her right foot._

_Drake suppressed a groan. _Great. _He saw Amber look down at her foot, then shoot him a glance over her shoulder that could freeze lava. He gave her his best apologetic grin from beneath his desk. Rolling her eyes, she reached down and snatched up his pen, holding it out to him across the aisle. Sliding up into a seated position, he reached for it, muttering a sheepish "Thanks" as he secured his fingers around it._

"_Drop dead," she muttered icily as she turned back to her exam without a second glance._

_Shrugging, Drake looked up at the clock again. Ten minutes left. As he turned back towards his test, he saw that Mr. Bradford was watching him again, got a strange feeling that he'd been watching him the whole time. Smiling slightly, he held up the pen victoriously and jiggled it in the air, as if to say, "I got it!" A look of resigned amusement crossed the man's face and he shook his head, the hint of a smile on his lips._

_Quickly reading over what he'd written, Drake tried to find the threads of his frayed concentration. He doubted he had time to finish both questions, but he could at least finish the one he had been working on before the phone fiasco threw him off-track. He knew, of course, that he'd get an earful from Mr. Bradford regarding the unanswered question._

_Sighing, he started writing, his handwriting getting more illegible by the second. "When Lincoln died, his ideas for welcoming the South back into the Union without further consequences died with him…"_

* * *

_Study hall was Drake's favorite subject._

_He knew she was looking at him; he could feel her eyes on him. She looked away quickly, of course, every time he looked in her direction. _

_He smiled. "Yeah, I see you," he muttered to himself._

_Josh stirred next to him, looking up from his Calculus book to gaze at his brother. "Did you say something?"_

_Drake turned his head to look at Josh, his grin growing wider. His Biology book was open in front of him, the front cover resting on his left forearm, his fingers curled around the top edge. "You see that girl over there?" he asked, leaning in so he could whisper to Josh. "The one in the pink sweater?" His dark eyes flitted across the room to the girl who was currently burying her nose in a battered copy of _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ – assigned reading, no doubt, Drake thought to himself, since no one would actually read _that_ book for fun. _

_Josh took a surreptitious glance across the room, found the girl reading quietly to herself. Her dark hair was tucked neatly behind her ear and Josh got a good glimpse of her profile – small nose, pale skin. She was absently chewing on her thumbnail as she read. He looked back at Drake. "Yeah. What about her?"_

"_She keeps looking at me," Drake stated, a gleam in his eyes._

_Josh quirked one eyebrow; he knew what Drake was getting at. "So what?"_

_Drake's eyes widened. "So," he said, clicking his retractable pen over and over, "I think she likes me."_

_This time Josh couldn't hide his disgust. "You think anyone with estrogen likes you," Josh quipped, rolling his eyes as he turned back towards his Calc book._

_Drake was silent next to him and Josh suppressed a grin. "Uh, Josh?" Drake whispered after a moment._

_Leaning over, Josh grabbed Drake's Biology book out of his grasp and flipped to the glossary, finding the E's. Encephalitis, enzyme, epidermis…aha! Placing the book back in front of Drake, Josh pointed to the word in question. Following Josh's finger, Drake read, "Estrogen: Any of several steroid hormones produced chiefly by the ovary and responsible for promoting estrus and the development and maintenance of female secondary sex characteristics."_

_Drake giggled; he only understood half those words, but it all sounded kinda dirty. He gave his brother a puzzled look._

_Josh heaved a sigh. "Girls, Drake," he whispered, defeated. "It's what, you know, helps make them girls." He felt himself beginning to blush. How does Drake always manage to drag him down into the gutter? His brother's immaturity was like a bullet train; Josh could always see it coming, but could never seem to get out of the way before it struck him._

"_You mean…?" Drake asked mischievously, holding his hands out in front of his chest, curling his fingers slightly towards him. He waggled his eyebrows._

_Josh's cheeks were burning and he busied himself with turning the page in his Calculus book with his left hand while shielding his face from Drake with his right, trying to pretend that he was just resting his elbow on the desk. He could hear his brother sniggering beside him._

_Eventually, Drake turned back to his book, flipped to the front page and wrote, "START HERE. Go to page 188." Flipping to page 188, he wrote the letter J at the top next to the page number. Beneath it, he wrote, "Go to page 286." Flipping to page 286, he wrote the letter O at the top near the page number, then wrote, "Go to page 17." He continued the pattern for several pages._

"_What are you _doing_?" Josh hissed from beside him. He had just spied Drake writing the letter K in the upper right-hand corner of page 334._

"_Nothing," Drake answered nonchalantly._

"_You shouldn't write in that book," Josh said. "It's not yours."_

"_So?" Drake started clicking the pen again, knowing it irritated Josh._

"_So, other people have to use that book next year. And you're defacing it! That's…" Josh floundered, "…defacement!" He leaned in, gave Drake his sternest look. "Of school property, no less!"_

_Drake just blinked back at him calmly. "So I probably shouldn't've drawn that picture of Mindy on the cafeteria wall then either, huh?" he asked mildly._

_Josh opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Drake thought he looked like a goldfish. "You…that was…but you said…" Josh spluttered, then sat up and stabbed a finger at Drake. "I believed you!"_

_Drake just shook his head. "Dude," he said. "Of course it was me."_

"_That took three coats of paint to cover up!" Josh knew his voice was rising, but he couldn't help it. No one could get his hackles up more than Drake. He ignored the sharp look from Mrs. Frobisher, the study hall monitor, as he said, "You can still see it, if you look close enough."_

_Looking wistful, Drake said nostalgically, "Yeah." He sighed. "That was some of my best work." He had drawn it last year when Mindy was running for student council president. It was a picture of Mindy's head on a donkey's body. Underneath it he had written, "_Mindy Crenshaw for ClASS President." _He snapped his fingers, grinning. "I think I still have a picture of it on my phone. Wanna see it?" He had his hand in his pocket before he remembered that Mr. Bradford was holding the gadget hostage until the end of the day. Chagrined, he muttered, "I'll show you later."_

"_Mindy was furious. She was convinced that you had done it. But I told her there was no way. Drake would _never_ do that. She didn't speak to me for a week. A week! And I didn't even do anything!" He turned back around, away from Drake, crossing his arms angrily over his chest._

"_Dude, calm down," Drake said, trying to appease him. "What do you care now, anyway? She dumped you, like, six months ago."_

_Josh gave him a dark look. "Thanks for reminding me." Josh and Mindy had reconciled at the end of last school year, but they had broken up for good right before school started up again. It still stung a little, especially since Josh hadn't had another girlfriend since._

"_I say good riddance," Drake said, turning back to his book. Underneath the letter K, he wrote, "What's that spell?" Then he closed the book._

_Whoever had the book next year, if they were curious enough to follow the clues, would be rewarded with the following message:_

_JOSH NICHOLS IS A DORK_

* * *

_It was after midnight. The boys sat on the couch in their room, bathed in the glow of the television. Two sets of bare feet were propped on the coffee table in front of them._

"_Dude, we shouldn't have drunk all that Mountain Fizz right before bed," Drake said mournfully. He felt tired, but his brain was buzzing inside his skull from all the caffeine._

_Josh rolled his head along the back of the couch and gazed at his brother out of the corner of his eye. "It was your idea. Let's see who can drink an entire two-liter the fastest!" he mocked._

_Drake met his gaze. "You _really_ have to stop listening to me," he said._

"_Don't I know it," Josh replied, looking up at the ceiling. "But I can't seem to help it. You can make anything seem like a good idea at the time. I bet you could sell bottled water to a drowning man."_

_But Drake wasn't listening; he was watching the television intently. The man on the screen was extolling the virtues of another miracle product. This one – some sort of adhesive – could apparently support the weight of a 250 pound man, yet was delicate enough to repair the handle on a bone china teacup! So many uses, you'll wonder how you ever survived without it! All yours for just…_

"_19.95," Josh mouthed along with the voice-over guy._

_Josh just rolled his eyes, waiting for the "But wait, there's more!" moment. It came, of course, like clockwork, promising a double order (at no extra cost!) to those who called in the next ten minutes._

_The soft sounds of telephone buttons emanated from Drake's side of the couch. Looking over at him, Josh saw Drake press a couple numbers on his cell phone, consult the TV screen, then push a few more. Just as he was about to press the phone to his ear, Josh reached over and grabbed it away._

"_Gimme that!" he said, flipping the phone closed with a _snap _and giving Drake a look. He slid the phone under his thigh, out of Drake's reach._

"_Hey!"_

_Josh put a hand on Drake's leg. "I'm saving you, once again, from yourself. You'll thank me later."_

_Drake smirked, then sunk back into the cushions with a sigh. He yawned. "See?" he said through it, pointing at his face. "Ah ire uh ah an fall asleep," he finished, his words becoming clearer as the yawn ended._

"_I know what you mean," Josh commiserated, rubbing his eyes. "I feel like I'm vibrating."_

"_That's my phone," Drake said, snatching the phone out from under Josh's leg. He gave his brother an exasperated look. "Idiot."_

_Josh just smiled. He tilted his head, indicating the phone. "Booty call?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows._

_Drake stared at him in silence for a long moment. "Don't ever say that again," he said, shuddering. "Just…ew."_

"_What?" Josh asked, laughing. _

_Drake flipped open his phone. He had a new text message. Pressing the button to open it, he read:_

"_hi drake. just thinking about u."_

"_Huh. That's weird," Drake said absently, staring at the screen._

"_What?"_

"_I don't recognize the number," he said, showing the phone to Josh._

_Josh read the message, a smile arcing slowly across his mouth. "Ooh," he said in his best scary voice, "someone has a stalker."_

_Drake rolled his eyes. "Yeah. And I'll probably find a necklace made from human hair hanging on my locker tomorrow."_

"_Call the number back and see if they answer."_

"_You think I should?" But he didn't wait for an answer before dialing the number. When the voicemail picked up, it was one of those default outgoing messages with the robotic female voice. He pointed at the phone and mouthed "voicemail" to Josh. After the beep, he stayed silent, debating whether or not to say anything. When Josh nudged him with his knee, he sputtered, "Uh, hi. This is Drake. I just got a text from this number. I was trying to find out who it's from." He suddenly smiled. "But if you want to keep it a secret, then I'm game. I like a good mystery. Nighty night." He clicked the phone shut and grinned at Josh._

"_Who do you think it is?" Josh asked._

_Drake shrugged. "Dunno." His grin grew wider. "But I bet she's hot."_

_Josh laughed, rolled his eyes. "Maybe it's that girl from study hall. You know, the one who's secretly in love with you," he said dramatically._

_Drake wrinkled his forehead for a second, his face clearing when he remembered. "How'd she get my number?"_

_Josh grinned. "Stalkers are very resourceful."_

_Drake thought it over for a second, then shook his head. "Nah," he said dismissively. "She doesn't seem the type."_

"_You don't even know her!" Josh protested._

"_I can just tell," Drake said. "I mean, look how she was dressed."_

_Josh looked blankly at him. "Huh?"_

_Drake patiently explained. "She was wearing slacks."_

"_Slacks," Josh repeated._

"_Girls who wear slacks don't text guys in the middle of the night. They draw hearts on their notebooks and write in their diaries." Drake spoke in a tone of voice that said that all of this should be obvious._

_Josh found it all very amusing. "So tell me," he said, curious about the rest of 'The World According to Drake'. "Those girls who _do_ text guys in the middle of the night. What do _they_ wear?"_

_Drake thought about it, then grinned. "Short shorts," he said. "And those tight shirts with the thin straps –"_

"_Spaghetti straps," Josh interjected helpfully._

_Drake shot him a look that said, _You're such a girl!_, then continued. "And most importantly…thongs," he said, his eyebrows lifting salaciously._

_The phone buzzed again and this time, Drake opened it immediately._

"_sweet dreams. ill be dreaming of u."_

_Drake laughed. "Yep," he said. "Definitely a thong."_

_Josh just rolled his eyes._

* * *

_Nathan Bradford pressed the SEND button on his little prepaid phone, then searched through the menu to open his voicemail. Playing back Drake's message, he closed his eyes as he listened to the boy's voice echo smoothly in his ear. When it was over, he played it again. And then again._

_He played it until the tightness in his jeans became uncomfortable enough to drag him out of his fantasy. His eyes flew open, flitted automatically to the window over the garage of the house across the street – dark but for a faint blue glow. The television, he guessed._

_He traced his erection through the rough cloth with his fingertips, scratching his fingernails along the length of the zipper. His mouth was dry and his pulse pounded in his temples. He closed his eyes and saw Drake's face._

"_No," he said out loud, his voice forceful inside the quiet vehicle. _

_It was enough to snap him back into reality. He let out a ragged breath and raked a sweaty palm through his tousled blond hair, willing away his arousal._

_He was hanging from a cliff by his fingertips. And he was losing his grip.

* * *

_

Please review. Thanks!


	11. Collateral Damages

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N: _**I know, I know! It's been FOREVER since I updated this story. There are a lot of reasons for this, but mostly, real life took a crap on me.

**_A/N 2:_** This is a bit of a transition chapter. There's not a whole lot vital to the plot here, but I felt I needed to write it to explain how the dynamics of the family have changed because of Drake's actions. Angst alert! I hope you like it.

**Thank you to everyone for being so patient!**

* * *

Chapter 11: Collateral Damages

_He's aware of time passing, the seconds sliding slowly past like drops of honey. There's a buzzing inside his head, like a thousand angry bees crowding against his skull. Something warm and solid is pressed against him, but he feels cold on the inside. So cold, like his bones are made of ice, and he wonders if he'll ever be warm again. A sharp tang burns his nose; he knows the smell, but can't place it. He tries to move, but his arms feel heavy. He tries to open his eyes, to see what's holding him down, but his eyelids are heavy, too. He hears his name; someone's whispering to him. The voice is soft and close and familiar, like the smell, and he knows without thinking that the two go together. And suddenly, he's afraid._

Drake jerks awake with a gasp and blinks rapidly, his breathing ragged. Fragments of the dream still cling to his memory and he shakes his head to try to clear them away, a few drops of sweat breaking free from his hairline to trail down his temples. He reaches to wipe them away only to find, once again, that he can't, and he suddenly remembers where he is and wonders how it is that he can keep forgetting.

He closes his eyes again, relieved to see nothing behind his eyelids, and concentrates on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

A soft sound startles him and he opens his eyes again, lifts his head to find its source, his dark eyes meeting another pair just like them across the room. Megan. She's pressed into the corner behind the door, staring at him, her big eyes shining and unblinking. She seems smaller than usual, hunched over slightly, her thin arms clutched across her chest. She's worrying her bottom lip with her teeth and Drake can see that she's been doing it for a long time because it looks raw.

They don't speak, just stare at each other, like ordinary words don't have any meaning, like there aren't any words at all, really, at least not the right ones. Drake lays his head back on the pillow and turns it so he can see her over his shoulder. He doesn't really know how long he's been here – there are a couple of days that are missing from his memory – but he knows she's never been here, not _here_ in this room, sharing the same space, breathing the same air.

He wants to tell her that crazy isn't contagious, but doesn't.

"You were having a bad dream," she finally says, her voice devoid of the hard edge he's used to and he knows she's only talking to break up the deafening silence.

He doesn't respond to that, just looks at her in silence.

She blinks finally, the movement slow and deliberate, like it's taking all her energy. "How are you?" she whispers, barely speaking at all, and she flinches at the question, like she really doesn't want to know. She's afraid he'll say he'd rather be dead.

But he doesn't say anything at all.

Somewhere inside she finds the strength to push away from the wall and she takes a tentative step closer. Drake can see her fingers digging into her arms and he thinks to himself that she's gonna have bruises tomorrow.

"I don't understand," she says beseechingly and her voice is soft and brittle, like if she speaks any louder, it'll shatter.

"I'm sorry." It's all he can think to say and he's not sure he means it.

Her dark eyes glisten with unshed tears and she presses her lips together to stop them from trembling. "I told Josh I hoped you died," she whispers almost to herself, staring down at her feet. "I didn't mean it, though." She shakes her head. "I didn't."

His throat aches and he looks away, has to, because suddenly his little sister seems so…_young_ and it unnerves him. It reminds him too much of the way she used to look at him when she was a toddler and he yelled at her for touching his stuff. He used to do whatever it took to make her smile again, to take the hurt from those huge dark eyes, but he can't do that now. No, no, not anymore. He's got nothing left to give her.

He jumps slightly, startled, when he feels soft fingers on his left wrist and he turns his eyes to her again, across her face and down her arm until his gaze rests on her small fingers as they caress the clean white gauze that hides his scars from the world. She's bitten her nails, he sees, almost to the quick, the remnants of bright pink nail polish clinging to what's left.

Looking up, he watches her face, sees the question flit across her eyes as quickly as the clouds skim the sky in summer, and he knows what she wants to ask him. "Go on," he says softly. "Ask me."

She looks up at that, her dark eyes meeting his across the short distance and he thinks to himself, _Our dad's eyes,_ 'cause, yes, he still remembers, even after so much time. Some things you don't ever forget. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again and shakes her head, lowering her eyes to look at her hands, which are now toying with the edge of the sheet.

"It's alright," he says.

Her gaze flits to his face again briefly then back down again and he can see that she's closed her eyes by the way her dark lashes seem to rest against her cheeks. A long moment passes before she finally asks, so softly that he can barely hear her, "Did it hurt?"

He knew it was coming, but it still stings, and he has to swallow down the lump in his throat just to say, "I didn't feel anything." Still doesn't, really.

She seems surprised by his reply, but the relief he sees in her eyes when she locks glances with him is almost palpable. She doesn't say a word, just nods and looks down again. He can hear the battered skin of her fingertips scratch against the rough sheet, can feel her tugging the material as she bunches it in her grip. There's something else she wants to ask him.

"Megan." He moves his hand slightly, causing the metal ring on the nylon strap to clink against the bed frame. The sound draws her gaze and he can see her eyes widen when she looks at the cuff that holds his arm in place, like she's seeing it for the first time.

"What did you think about?" she asks him suddenly, looking him in the eye.

"When?" he asks. But he knows.

She doesn't answer him, asks instead, "Did you think about _us_?" in a voice that has grown stronger now, that familiar edge creeping in around the edges.

She's angry, he realizes, but he's not surprised, not really. He just wonders what's taken her so long to get to it. "No," he answers evenly, even though the real answer is that he doesn't really remember. He knows that he's hurt her and he doesn't care, doesn't have the strength to care anymore.

The anger flares then dies away, leaving a cold afterimage in her eyes. She crosses her arms across her chest again protectively, like a shield against the hurt. "I want to hate you," she whispers harshly and she blinks against the hot sting of tears.

"Go ahead." His own voice sounds hollow in his ears. "It doesn't matter."

She doesn't say anything, just clenches her jaw and digs her fingers into her arms again, her eyes flitting from his face to his hand to the floor, where they stay, fixed, for a long, silent moment. He watches her closely, sees her shoulders slump, like she's finally accepted a cold, hard truth. "No," she says softly, dragging her eyes back to his. They're dry now, but sharp with sadness. "I guess it doesn't."

He doesn't reply, just watches her go, turning away when the door clicks shut.

* * *

"I'm afraid of him," she whispers painfully.

Walter doesn't know what to say to that, so he says automatically, "He'll be alright."

They're sitting in the cafeteria, pre-made sandwiches untouched on the table in front of them. Audrey has her hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of coffee that has long since grown cold. Walter tried to get her to go home, but this was the farthest she had been willing to go.

"Don't," she says sharply, looking at him across the table. An undercurrent of anger flickers in her red-rimmed eyes. It's Tuesday evening; she's scarcely slept since Friday night. "Don't say that unless you know for sure. Unless you can promise me." Her voice cracks on that last sentence and she looks away.

He slides his hand across the table and brushes his fingers across the back of her wrist. "We have to believe it, Audrey. What else is there?"

"There's the truth," she says quickly, suddenly pushing the coffee cup away. A little bit of the dark liquid sloshes over the side and onto the table and she watches the puddle spread before turning her gaze on her husband. "And the truth is that he's broken, Walter." Her eyes flood with angry tears and she tries to blink them away. "He's broken. And I don't know how to fix him."

"It's not your fault."

But his words, meant to soothe, strike the opposite chord, and she becomes more agitated. "Then whose fault is it? You tell me that. He didn't just wake up one day and decide that seventeen years of life was enough. Someone pushed him to it. Maybe that was me." Her voice had risen high enough to draw clandestine glances from people sitting near them, but now it was little more than a whisper. "He hates me. _Hates_ me. And I don't know why."

She covers her face with her hands then and the movement makes the diamond in her engagement ring sparkle. Walter stares at it, remembering when he gave it to her. The look of sheer happiness in her eyes had filled him with a sense of accomplishment, knowing that he'd put it there.

He'd give anything to put it there now.

"Why didn't I see them?" he hears her ask and he's drawn back to the present. She's lowered her hands; they're folded in her lap and she's staring down at them.

The signs, that's what she's talking about. The things that would have told her that Drake was in trouble. "I missed them, too," he says quietly to the top of her head.

"He's not your son."

Her words steal Walter's breath and he feels his hands clench tightly into fists, his nails biting into his palms. It takes him a long moment, but he finally manages to say, "I love him all the same." He has to consciously unclench his hands and lay them flat on the table to keep them from shaking.

She lifts her head at that, the hollow look in her husband's eyes slowly registering, and it dawns on her what she said. "Oh god. Walter, I…I didn't mean…I know you love him. I know that," she says, reaching for his hand. "I'm sorry. I just…"

He turns his hand under hers so their palms are touching, rests his other one on top. "It's okay," he whispers, his heart breaking at the sight of the utter exhaustion in her eyes.

She sighs, her eyes falling shut. She sits like that for a long moment, just breathing, and Walter watches her. He's so intent on her face that he doesn't even see her other hand move to cover his, just feels the warmth bloom across his skin.

"Tell me again," she whispers.

He doesn't have to ask because he knows. Because despite everything, it's the only thing she has to cling to.

"He'll be alright."

* * *

"I have to pee," Drake says.

The young woman looks back at him, unfazed. The name badge clipped to her short white lab coat says Angela Coleman, M.D.. "I can call the nurse," she says evenly.

Drake just blinks at her. She seems very young to be a doctor, he thinks. She can't be more than 24 years old, give or take a year. "Or you could just undo these things," he says, jingling the restraints, "so I can go by myself."

"You know I can't do that," she replies, her hazel eyes appraising him.

"Why not?"

"Doctor's orders."

"But you're a doctor. It says so on your nametag." He tilts his head in the direction of the badge hanging from her lapel.

"I'm just a resident," she says. "I don't have the authority."

He just stares back at her in silence, studying her. She's chubby, with shoulder-length dark blonde hair and hazel eyes that look almost green. She's not wearing a lot of makeup, he notices, just a little mascara and a touch of pink-tinted lip gloss. "How old are you?" he asks her abruptly.

She almost smiles. "Twenty-eight."

"You're older than I thought," he tells her.

"I get that a lot," she replies. She shifts in her chair – one of those plastic folding things that have just enough cushioning to make it tolerable – and adjusts the file on her thigh. A white retractable pen rests between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

"Resident," he finally says. "So that's not, like, a real doctor."

A more genuine smile curves her lips slightly. "I am a real doctor. I'm just still in training."

"Training? For what?" He's sitting up, propped against a pile of pillows, slightly above her in vantage point. He has to look down a little to meet her eyes.

"To be a psychiatrist." She says it without inflection, watching him for his reaction.

Drake doesn't say anything for a long moment, but something flashes in his eyes that he can't hide. Anger? Fear? Disgust? Maybe all three.

"Ah," he replies, smirking. "So you're here to tell me I'm crazy."

She stares at him impassively. "I'm here to talk. If you want."

Drake snorts. "And what if I don't?" He feels his hands clench into fists.

"That's fine, too." She tilts her head slightly. "But I'm here to help you."

Drake laughs at that – a bitter, angry sound. "Help me," he says, shaking his head. "I think it's a little late for that, don't you?"

"Why do you say that?" she asks him, her voice as even as if she was talking about the weather.

But Drake doesn't answer. "I know what you're trying to do."

"What's that?" She hooks her pen to the top cover of the file and shifts again in her seat.

He just shrugs in response. "Are you being graded for this?" he asks her.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she says, but a note of defensiveness has crept into her voice. A fissure in the armor at last.

Drake seizes onto it. "I mean, is this like a test? Crack open Drake Parker's skull and dig for all his deep, dark secrets. The more you find, the better you do."

She presses her lips together and the movement makes visible a thin white scar that runs across her chin and through her bottom lip. She stares at him for a long moment. "Tell me what happened," she says softly.

"You first."

"What do you mean?" she asks, surprised.

Drake smiles maliciously. He's got her a little off-balance; he can hear it in her voice. "That scar on your chin," he says. "How'd you get it?"

Dr. Angela Coleman looks at him evenly. "When I was 18 years old, I was in a car accident. A piece of glass was embedded in my chin."

Nodding, Drake says, "Was it your fault? The accident."

"No," she answers. "The other driver ran the red light."

"So it was someone else's fault, then," he mutters very softly. He turns away, looking down at his feet, at the way the covers tent above his toes. He can still feel her eyes on him.

"What about your scars?" she finally asks him. "Whose fault are they?"

Drake looks down at his wrists, first one then the other. "Mine," he says, trying to sound nonchalant, turning his gaze on her. "I took a razor blade to my wrists."

"Yes, I know that. But there are other types of scars. Ones we can't see. What about those?" She sounds so earnest, he almost laughs.

He leans towards her a little, like he's going to share one of his secrets with her and he sees her lean in a little, too, like she doesn't want to miss a syllable. "My father died when I was four years old. Maybe it's just a delayed reaction or something. Post dramatic stress."

She shakes her head and leans back in the chair, catching his eyes with her own. "Traumatic," she says, the tiniest hint of a smile drawing up one corner of her mouth. "Post-_traumatic_ stress."

"What did I say?" Drake asks.

"You said 'dramatic'."

"Huh." They sit in heavy silence for a long time. "My father really did die when I was four years old," he offers at last.

"I'm sorry," she says.

Drake shrugs. "I barely remember him."

Another silent moment passes. "You don't really want to talk, do you?" she asks him.

"Score one for you." His voice is even but his eyes are sharp.

She sighs. "Alright," she says, grasping the file and opening it up, flipping a few pages and jotting down something quickly.

"There's only one 'z' in 'crazy'," he quips flippantly.

Closing the file, she stands up, looks down at him. "You're not crazy, Mr. Parker," she says, noticing the way he flinches at the name. "You're just not ready to talk about whatever it is that's troubling you. That's okay. It takes time."

Drake doesn't respond.

"I'll try to come back to see you again on Thursday," she tells him. "If that's alright."

"Whatever." But it's not 'no'.

"Get some rest," she says, walking towards the door.

Her hand is on the door handle when she hears him say, "I really do have to pee, you know."

She smiles a little. "I'll tell the nurse."

* * *

The nameplate on the door says 'William Sanderson' in all capital letters. Below that, in smaller caps, it says 'Assistant Principal'.

Josh is waiting outside the door, his backpack sitting heavily between his feet. He can hear Mr. Sanderson talking through the door, the words muffled and indecipherable. He's not sure why he's here, really, except that he really needs to tell someone in charge at the school about Drake and Mr. Sanderson…well, Josh has always liked him.

"He should be with you in just a moment," Ms. Murrell says softly to him from her desk a few feet away. She's one of two administrative assistants who work in the front office.

"Thanks," he says, nodding at her. She smiles sympathetically at him and he wonders if she knows. Is it that obvious? It must be written across his forehead or something.

He's staring down at his feet when the door opens. A pair of wing-tip shoes emerge from the office. "Josh?"

Josh lifts his head with an effort to meet Mr. Sanderson's eyes. "Yes, sir," he says, standing up and pulling one strap of his backpack over his right shoulder. "I need to talk to you."

"Of course." The man steps aside to let Josh by, then closes the door softly behind him. He motions to one of two chairs in front of his desk. "Please have a seat."

"Thanks," Josh mutters, sinking heavily into the soft chair, letting his bag slide off his shoulder and onto the floor. He stares at the scrolling screensaver on the computer monitor. It reads, "Belleview High School. Striving for Excellence."

Mr. Sanderson settles in his chair and looks across the desk at Josh, his brown eyes assessing the young man in front of him. "What is it, son?" he asks in his traditional assistant principal way. He's been at the job nearly thirty years. The new and improved school administrators steer away from such endearments.

Josh waits until the last of the word 'Excellence' scrolls off the screen before he focuses his eyes on the man across the desk. "It's about Drake, sir," he says softly. "He's in the hospital."

Mr. Sanderson is taken aback for a moment, then says, "Nothing serious, I hope," but knows by Josh's reaction that it is.

Josh stares at him, his eyes shining, but he's not really looking at him. It's more like he's looking _through_ him. "He tried to kill himself on Friday night." The words are so soft that he wonders if he's spoken them aloud at all.

"Oh, no." The older man reaches for a crystal paperweight resting on a stack of files, picks it up, sets it down again.

"He cut his wrists with a utility knife," Josh whispers. "I found him in the shower." He's not sure why he's telling the man this, except that he needs to tell _someone_. He can't carry the load by himself anymore; it's drowning him.

"Josh." Mr. Sanderson feels so helpless in front of this young man – no, boy, he's still a boy – and his grief. He knows how to talk to angry parents and petulant students, how to mete out discipline and write unambiguous policies. But he has no idea how to take the pain from this boy's eyes. "Josh," he says again.

"Our parents are…" But he doesn't finish the thought, says instead, "I thought that someone should know." His eyes finally seem to focus on Mr. Sanderson's face. "I don't know when he'll be back in school."

Mr. Sanderson finally finds his voice. "I'll meet with all his teachers."

Josh nods. "Thank you." But he means for more than just that.

As the principal watches Josh leave, he discovers that his eyes are wet.

* * *

Drake just wishes he would go away.

"I told Mr. Sanderson," Josh says simply. He's standing at the foot of Drake's bed. Visiting hours are just about over. "He's gonna tell your teachers. They'll figure out what to do about your school work." He knows it sounds stupid, knows his brother doesn't care, but it's all he can think of to talk about.

"Great," Drake says darkly. "'Cause I was worried about that."

The sarcasm, though expected, still stings. Josh has nothing to say.

"Is that all?" Drake asks, looking at his brother with hard eyes.

Josh shuffles his feet, his sneakers squeaking softly against the floor. "Is the bed comfortable?"

"Not really." Drake shrugs. "I like to sleep on my stomach."

Josh's brow furrows for a second before he realizes what his brother's saying – he can't roll over. He tries not to look at the restraints holding his brother in place, but he can't help it and his eyes dart quickly from one arm to the other. "I'm sorry."

"It's too late for that."

Josh flinches at the words, at the cold venom behind them. He looks at his brother's face, sees the anger flushing his skin. "Drake…" he begins, but his voice fizzles out.

"Why did you come home early?"

The question freezes Josh's blood. "I –" he says. "My date ended early. Sarah…she knew that I was worried about you." His throat aches.

A muscle twitches in Drake's cheek, but he stays silent. He holds Josh's gaze as the seconds tick by, then looks away.

"Go away," he mutters. "I'm tired."

But Josh doesn't move. He's got his hands shoved in his pockets and he's chewing at the inside of his bottom lip when he whispers, "You knew I'd find you."

Drake doesn't reply.

Josh doesn't want to ask because he knows, _knows_ what Drake's gonna say, but the question comes out of his mouth anyway. "What was I supposed to do?" His voice sounds strangled and he feels cold inside, like his organs are frozen.

And he doesn't want to hear the words, tries to head them off at the pass by shaking his head, but it's too late and all he can do is shut his eyes against the sound of his brother's pain.

"Let me die."

* * *

_Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you._


	12. Afflicted

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
_**DISCLAIMER:** _I do not own _Drake & Josh_. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_ **I felt I needed to give Bradford a little backstory, so here it is. Basically, he wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it.

**_A/N 2:_** There is a teensy bit of semi-graphic stuff in this chapter. Please keep that in mind.

_Chapter 12: Afflicted_

_It was only the beginning of February but the air outside felt sticky and Nathan Bradford tugged irritably at the collar of his sleeveless t-shirt. He had just returned home from his daily run. It had lasted longer than usual – he had tacked on an extra three miles to his usual five mile run – and he could already feel the aching soreness creeping into his muscles._

_He stood on his balcony looking out into the growing dusk, watching as the long tendrils of pink light played against the side of the building across the street, making it glow. He'd overdone it today, pushing himself harder than he had in a long time. He could still remember the sharp stitch of pain in his side, the way he gritted his teeth against it and kept focusing on the sound of his feet hitting the pavement of the jogging path in the park. He could still hear the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears, mixed with the _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart, drowning out everything else._

_It had been a relief, really, despite the pain. A relief to think of nothing except the next step. And the next. And the next. Because it was happening again; he could feel it. He was losing control. It was like a humming beneath his skin, like low voltage electricity flowing through his cells. Obsession, that's what it was called, if he were completely honest with himself. He preferred to think of it more as fascination._

_If only he could keep running._

_The front door opened. "Nathan, you home?" he heard her ask as the door clicked shut behind her. Claire. He closed his eyes against the sound of her voice; he wasn't about to respond. He pictured her as she moved through the apartment – dropping her keys and briefcase on the small dining room table, kicking off her shoes, bending to hook her fingers into the heels and padding across the wood floor to the bedroom where she would open the closet door and toss them carelessly inside to join others in a chaotic pile. Then she would take off her business suit, hang it up carefully, and walk into the bathroom in nothing but her underwear. She was probably leaning over the sink now, twisting her hair roughly behind her head and clipping it there so she could begin the process of removing her makeup._

_He opened his eyes, took another look through the screen at the waning light. It was almost gone, having turned into the muted gray of twilight. He felt itchy and uncomfortable; he needed a shower. Sighing, he turned and went back inside, leaving the sliding glass door open behind him._

_He found her in the bathroom, just as he knew she would be, dragging a red hand towel over her face. He leaned against the doorframe and watched her reflection in the mirror. When she put the towel down, she noticed him staring at her, and a slow smile curved her lips. "When did you get home?" she asked, catching his eye in the mirror._

"_About half an hour ago."_

"_I called for you. Didn't you hear me?" She turned from the mirror, crossing her arms over her chest as she propped her hip against the edge of the counter._

"_I was on the balcony," he said._

_She looked at him, her dark blue eyes framed by still-wet lashes. Taking in his attire, she noticed the dark rings of sweat around his neck and under his arms. "How was your run?"_

"_Hard," he answered simply._

"_Are you okay?" she asked sincerely, her voice soft._

"_I'm fine," he told her shortly. "Just tired."_

_She sauntered over to him, the beginnings of a lascivious smile playing on her lips. "I was just about to get in the shower," she cooed, pressing her palms flat against his chest. "Care to join me?"_

_He had to grit his teeth to keep from grimacing. "You go ahead," he said, taking a step back, ignoring the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "I've got papers to grade." Then before she could react, he turned and walked back into the bedroom._

_He heard the shower turn on as he walked out of the bedroom, turning down the hall and walking back towards the living room. It was completely dark now, he saw, as he looked through the open sliding glass door. Night was descending upon the neighborhood like a shroud._

_It wasn't Claire's fault. She was beautiful and intelligent and successful. Her only flaw seemed to be that she loved him. They had met back in Minnesota at the birthday party of a mutual acquaintance. She was a junior associate at a small real estate firm specializing in leasing high rise office space to upstart businesses in the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul area. He taught history at a private academy. He had been chatting with the guest of honor when she waltzed up to him and beamed a 1,000 watt smile that had caught him off-guard._

_They went to bed together that first night. They'd been together ever since._

_When he had been forced to leave the academy, he decided that it was for the best, anyway. He was tired of subzero winters and frozen sidewalks, muddy slush and inch-thick frost on his windshield. So he started looking for teaching jobs in warmer climates, found an opening at Belleview High School in southern California, and decided to just pick up and move before he even had the job._

_Claire had come with him, no questions asked. "They have real estate in San Diego," she had said in response to his question about her job in St. Paul._

_He was trying to give her an out. No hard feelings. Obviously, she hadn't taken the bait._

_Walking into the kitchen, he ducked his head into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. His brain was beginning to buzz, that too-familiar restlessness creeping along his spine. He could hear the muted sound of the shower through the kitchen wall, tried to picture Claire all wet and soapy in an effort to change the tone of his regular fantasies._

_Nothing. Not even a twinge. _Fuck.

_He twisted the cap off the water bottle and tilted it to his lips, drinking half the contents in three long swallows, feeling the cold water travel the length of his esophagus before it reached his stomach. He turned, leaned his backside against the edge of the countertop and focused on the wall opposite, staring at the framed photograph of he and Claire at a Vikings game, their faces painted half white and half purple. Rooting for the home team. Smiling widely. Two young people in love._

_Claire loved that photo, had had it enlarged from a 4x6 to an 18x20. She said it reminded her of how lucky they were. It only reminded him of how much she didn't understand._

_A muffled chime startled him. His phone. Setting the bottle on the counter, he walked over to the dining room table and retrieved his messenger bag from one of the chairs, setting it on the tabletop and riffling through the front pocket for the small gadget. Flipping it open, he didn't see a prompt for a new voice or text message. Confusion furrowed his brow._

_He heard the chime again, louder this time. Then he knew. It was the prepaid phone, the one he kept buried deep down in the inside pocket of his bag. Only one person had the number, he knew. His heart thudded against his ribs as he reached inside for the phone, securing his fingers around it and pulling it out._

One new text message,_ the screen told him._

_He held his breath, pressed a trembling thumb to the keypad to retrieve the message. His palms were sweaty and he absently rubbed his free hand along the seam of his shorts as his blue eyes skipped over the message._

"_gimme a hint"_

_His mouth had gone dry and a jolt of arousal shot through him. Running his hand over his face, he opened his reply box and typed quickly, willing his clumsy fingers to work._

"_u c me everyday" He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he hit SEND, when he exhaled in a rush, gripping the phone tightly in his fingers._

_He waited, staring at the screen unblinkingly, willing another message to materialize. He didn't hear the shower turn off._

_A second later, he got his wish. A new text message entered his inbox, waiting to be opened._

_When he opened it, he saw that it said, "gimme another 1"_

_This was a dangerous game, he knew, but he couldn't stop playing. It was like a drug; he needed it. He opened the reply box again, started to type, his breath burning in his lungs._

"_Nathan?"_

_Her voice startled him, shattering the cocoon he had found himself in, the pieces falling all around him like ash. Folding his hand around the tiny phone, he turned to look at her. She was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, wearing a blue satin robe that didn't reach her knees. Her dark hair was wet, making it look even darker._

"_Something wrong?" she asked him, her eyes scanning his face._

_He shook his head. "No," he said, his voice gruff. He dropped the phone back into his bag quickly. "I was just checking my messages." His pulse still throbbed in his neck and the electricity in his skin had gotten more intense._

"_Are you sure you're okay?" she asked softly, her eyes wide with concern. She took a step towards him._

_He felt jumbled, like a puzzle still in the box, all the pieces mixed up. The buzzing in his head was getting louder, louder, until it drowned out everything else. "Come here." He felt his mouth move, felt the words vibrate in his throat, but he didn't hear them._

_She walked to him and he grabbed her, grasping her arms in his fingers so tightly he could feel the smooth, thin fabric of her robe bunching against his palms. "Nathan," he saw her say, his name like a prayer on her lips. He could see the tears, too, crowding along her lower eyelids._

_He softened his grip then, felt her hands on his chest. "Honey?" she asked him and this time he heard it, but it was a distant sound, like she was talking through a tunnel. "Honey, what's wrong?"_

_He pulled her to him and kissed her, hearing her whimper at the roughness of it. Making easy work of her robe, it fell to the floor in a shimmering pool of blue. She clutched at his shorts, sliding her fingers inside the waistband, suddenly needy, feeling his own need pressed against her. It had been so long, so long and she was consumed with the urgency of it._

_Pushing her further into the kitchen, he lifted her up onto the counter, feeling her warm and malleable against him, her legs circling his hips. Eyes closed, his teeth grazed the soft skin of her shoulder and _Jesus god, help me, she's not the one I want.

_It was rough and fast and she cried out when he pushed into her, but she pushed back, her nails digging into his skin, leaving her mark on him._

_When it was over, he stood there, still inside her, his head still buried in the curve of her neck. She was caressing him now, her fingers smoothing his hair, her breath warm against his ear. "I love you," she whispered and he was afraid to look at her, afraid to see what was in her eyes._

"_I'm sorry," he told her._ God forgive me.

* * *

_The blue glow from the LCD display gave his face a sickly pallor in the darkness of the dining room. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning. He had left Claire sleeping soundly almost an hour ago, prying himself carefully from her grasp, the feel of her skin against his suddenly unbearable._

_She had wanted to make love again, but he couldn't, and he assuaged her disappointment by using his fingers on her. She writhed against his hand, using hers to press his harder against her, and when she came, a tear escaped her right eye and rolled down her temple. She offered to do the same for him, but he demurred, opting to hold her instead until they both fell asleep._

_But when he awoke to find her arm across his stomach, he had an undeniable urge to escape. So he retreated to the kitchen for a glass of water which turned into a glass of vodka instead. One vodka had been followed by another one, which currently sat half-empty on the table next to his left elbow. The alcohol helped smooth the rough edges and quiet the noises in his head._

_He had texted back when he first sat down at the table, "sorry. got interrupted" and sent it before he could change his mind. There was no going back._

_There hadn't been a reply until a few minutes ago. That's what he was staring at now, staring so intently that he thought the words would be forever burned onto his retinas._

"_i think we should meet"

* * *

_

Please review. Thank you.


	13. Revelations

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
_**DISCLAIMER:** _I do not own _Drake & Josh_. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N: _**I realized that everyone had had a "Drake" moment except Walter, so I've remedied that here. Plus a little Mr. B thrown in for good measure. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 13: Revelations

Ever since Josh Nichols had told him on Monday afternoon that his stepbrother was in the hospital, Mr. Bradford had been at a loss. He had managed to discover that Drake was at Mercy Hospital, but that was as far as he had gotten. They wouldn't tell him what was wrong with the boy or what room number he was in. That sort of information was restricted to family members only, and then only those on a list provided to the hospital switchboard.

Text messages had gone unanswered, but that was nothing new, really. Drake had stopped replying over two weeks ago.

So when Mr. Sanderson requested a meeting with all of Drake's teachers on Wednesday morning, Mr. Bradford started to panic. Currently, the small group was sitting randomly around two round tables in the teachers' lounge, various levels of apprehension coloring their expressions.

"I have some sobering news," Mr. Sanderson says, keeping his voice even. But in thirty years of being a school administrator, he has never had to deal with anything like this and he struggles to find the words. He clears his throat roughly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers only to pull them out again, his fingers absently smoothing the flaps on the pockets of his suit jacket.

Forcibly gaining control of his nerves, he holds himself completely still and looks into the eyes of each teacher in turn. "Drake Parker," he begins, his voice soft, "attempted suicide on Friday night."

Nathan Bradford doesn't hear what comes after that, doesn't hear the muted gasps of shock or the muffled _oh my god_s. He doesn't hear anything but the incessant pounding of his heart inside his head.

He has to remind himself to breathe.

"You look tired, son."

Drake wants to laugh, but doesn't, afraid that the sound will turn into something else, something he doesn't want Walter to see. So instead, he simply looks out the window and doesn't say anything at all.

They're sitting in a room down the hall from Drake's. It's small, filled with overstuffed chairs and a couple of tables stacked with old magazines and a few well-thumbed paperbacks. Two large windows cover nearly one whole wall and sunlight streams through partially closed vertical blinds, throwing elongated strips of light across the worn linoleum.

Drake's doing his best to disappear into the cushions of an old green chair, his feet resting on a small area rug that's supposed to make the room feel less clinical but fails in the attempt. A slice of light cuts across his knees, accenting the washed-out pattern on his hospital gown. His arms are resting on his thighs and he's absently rubbing the back of his right arm against the coarse upholstery – his skin itches where the restraint cuff used to be.

The nurse had come in to free him about half an hour ago, telling him that the doctor said it was alright to let him get up and move around a little. Of course, not without supervision, he soon discovered. When the nurse had opened the door, Walter had been waiting for him, a blue duffel bag in one hand and a tentative smile on his lips.

Dark eyes straying from the window to Walter's face, they finally drift down to the bag at Walter's feet. He recognizes it; it's the one Josh uses to carry his gym clothes in. "What's in the bag?" he finally asks. Those are the first words he's spoken since he and Walter sat down.

Walter crinkles his forehead for a moment, like he's forgotten all about it, then his face clears and he reaches down and curls his fingers around the handles, pulling it into his lap. He rests his hands on the nylon bag, his fingers playing with the zipper. "The doctor said he thought it would be nice if you had some things from home," he says, holding Drake's gaze. "There's some clothes and stuff." He holds the bag out to Drake with both hands.

Drake reaches out and takes the bag from Walter. It's heavy and he has to use both hands to keep from dropping it. Placing the bag on his lap, he unzips it, the sound cutting through the quiet air between them. Inside he sees his favorite pair of pajama pants laying on top – the beige ones with the horses on them; Grammy had sent them to him for Christmas two years ago. He touches them lightly, feeling the soft fabric against his fingertips, and almost smiles.

The rest of the bag is filled with more clothes, his iPod, and toiletries – his electric toothbrush, a brand new tube of his favorite toothpaste, dental floss, and an electric razor. This last thing makes him laugh, but it's not a happy sound. He secures his fingers around it and pulls it out, holding it up for Walter to see, turning it in the light.

"I didn't know I used an electric razor," he says, smirking. He runs his other hand across his face, feeling the still-soft stubble against his palm.

Walter has the grace to look sheepish. "The doctor said…" he begins, then stops, letting his voice trail away.

"Right," Drake replies, nodding slightly. "Keep sharp objects out of the reach of the nutcase."

Walter winces at the words, looks away. "I'm sorry."

But Drake shrugs, a sharp edge of anger slicing through him. "Hey, don't sweat it, Walter. I get it." He flips the razor on with his thumb and feels it come to life in his hand, the vibration traveling through his arm. Pressing the razor to his cheek, he can feel the tiny – albeit hidden – blades cut through the hair on his face.

He sees Walter turn to look at him. Dragging the razor down his cheek in one long motion, he then turns it off and drops it back into the bag, meeting the older man's eyes with his own. "How do I look?" he asks sarcastically.

Walter doesn't answer immediately, just stares at him – the empty eyes framed by skin that looks bruised, the dry lips, the pale skin. "Like you hate the world," Walter finally says, reluctantly.

Silence passes between them for a long moment before a wry smile draws up one corner of Drake's mouth. "Not the whole world," he replies evenly, meeting Walter's eyes. "Just part of it."

The intensity of Drake's gaze silences his stepfather and after a moment, Drake busies himself once again with the contents of the bag. He knows his own wardrobe better than anyone, so it doesn't take him long to realize the singular thing that all the shirts have in common. "Don't tell me," he says suddenly, pulling out one of his shirts and unfurling it like a battle flag, holding it in front of him like a shield. A bitter expression darkens his face. "Mom packed this bag."

Walter looks at Drake, surprised. When the doctor had suggested bringing some of Drake's things to the hospital, Audrey had insisted that she pack his bag. He wouldn't allow her to do anything else for him, she said; she could at least do that much. So Walter had driven her home in the predawn hours, where they found Josh and Megan sitting together on the living room couch watching television. While Audrey busied herself with gathering up Drake's things, he had gone to the 24-hour pharmacy three blocks away to fill a prescription for sleeping pills that the doctor had handed to him before they left.

"She needs to sleep," the doctor had told him sternly and Walter had just nodded in agreement. She had resisted taking the medication at first, insisting that they return immediately to the hospital to take Drake his things. But Walter had stood firm and she finally relented. Walter had lain down next to her and had managed to fall asleep for a couple hours, but had been awakened by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Getting up, he had found Josh in the hall, dressed for school.

"You don't have to go," Walter had told him. "I keep telling you."

But Josh had just nodded wearily, his light brown eyes full of sadness. "Gotta keep moving." And then he had simply turned and walked down the stairs.

Audrey and Megan were still asleep when Walter left the house.

Walter meets Drake's eyes across the short distance, sees the hardness in them. "Yes, she did."

"I knew it," Drake says, bunching the shirt in his fingers.

"What's the matter?"

Drake smiles viciously. "All the shirts have long sleeves."

Walter doesn't understand. "So?" Drake wears long-sleeved shirts all the time. But his fingers grip the chair's arms involuntarily, an ominous feeling creeping along his skin.

Drake's gaze doesn't waver. "So it's not cold in here."

"Drake, it took her over an hour to pack that bag, you know. I'm sure she was just trying to pick your favorites," Walter says, hearing his voice rise.

"Or," Drake says, stuffing the shirt back in the bag and pushing the bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. He stands up, flushing. "There's something she doesn't want to see." And he defiantly thrusts his bandaged wrists out in front of him.

"Son," Walter whispers, trying not to stare. He forces his eyes to focus on Drake's, which are flashing darkly at him. "I'm sure it's just a coincidence." He shakes his head. "Stop looking for reasons to hate her."

Drake lets his arms fall to his sides. "I don't have to look," he says softly. "They're just there."

A few seconds tick by, Drake's words hanging heavily in the air between them. Then Drake sighs, resigned, and bends to grab the handles of the duffel bag. "Thanks for bringing my stuff," he replies, then straightens and turns towards the door.

"Tell me how you did it."

Walter's words stop Drake short and his thin, hospital-issue slippers scuff across the floor. His fingers convulse around the handles of the bag and he turns slowly to look at Walter, who's sitting forward in his chair, his fingers digging into the worn upholstery. "Ask Josh," Drake says, watching his stepfather closely.

But Walter shakes his head. "Josh won't talk about it. You know how he is."

Drake _does _know. Knows better than most that Josh always hides the ugly stuff away. It's his joy he can't seem to contain. "What does it matter?"

"Because," Walter says vehemently, standing up and taking a step towards Drake. "Because," he repeats, his voice softening, "I just don't understand. The kid I know wouldn't do this." And he shakes his head helplessly, gesturing abstractly with his hands.

"People only show you what they want you to see," Drake replies, setting the heavy bag down at his feet and flexing his fingers, feeling the blood tingle in his skin. "You should know that."

"But you're my son," Walter whispers.

"I'm a liar," Drake tells him and sees Walter flinch.

Walter looks away, hears Drake ask him, "Do you really want to know?"

_No._ "Yes." He started this; he's going to see it through, deciding that the _not_ knowing would be worse. He hopes he's right. He turns his gaze back to Drake, who's staring back at him.

"I had it all planned out," Drake begins simply, walking over to the window and looking out. "I took the utility knife out of your toolbox last Sunday. Opened it. Changed the blade. Then I hid it in the back of my desk drawer." He cast a look over his shoulder, finds Walter staring back at him, his mouth open slightly, riveted to his spot on the floor. "It wasn't until Monday that I got the idea to take your pills. You had gotten a refill and Megan asked you what it was for. You told her they kept your blood from clotting too much. I thought they'd come in handy."

Walter closes his eyes at that and Drake turns back towards the window. His fingers find the adjuster rod for the blinds and he turns it, closing the blinds, then opening them again. The plastic slats clink together noisily in the still air. "I only took one a day so that you wouldn't notice," he continues. "Until Friday."

"You weren't really sick, were you?" Walter asks suddenly, his voice choked.

"No," Drake answers.

"I knew it," Walter says before he can stop himself. "I knew you were faking." As if he was now somehow vindicated. Except that he's wrong; he doesn't know anything.

"But you've got it backwards," Drake says, turning once again to look at him. "You thought I was pretending to be sick, but I wasn't. I'd been pretending to be happy." And he lets his words sink in, which they do, as evidenced by the trembling in Walter's lips.

He turns back towards the window. After a moment, he continues. "Mom almost ruined everything, though. I knew if I didn't show her that I was okay, she would cancel your trip. So I did what I've always done – I lied."

Walter realizes he'd been right about that, too. Except, of course, his reasoning for it was completely and utterly wrong. But this time, he doesn't say anything.

"When everyone was gone, I realized that everything was finally in place. I locked the door. I turned out the lights. I went upstairs and got the knife." His voice is detached, like he's recalling events that happened to someone else.

"Drake," Walter says. He doesn't think he wants to hear this after all. "Stop."

Drake turns on him, anger flashing in his eyes. "What's the matter, Walter? You don't like horror stories?" He takes a step forward and Walter sees the rawness behind the boy's eyes. "It's okay," Drake assures him. "This one has a happy ending. At least for you."

Walter's never seen this side of Drake before and it frightens him. How could he have been so blind? How could they _all_ have been so blind? Putting his hands out in front of him, he tries to calm his son. "I think you need some rest, son. I'll take you back to your room." He starts to reach for the bag.

"But I want you to know, Walter," Drake says caustically. "I _want_ you to know." He watches as Walter starts to straighten, waits until he's standing at his full height to continue. "I went into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I took the last four pills that I had stashed away. I took off my clothes and turned on the shower, stared at myself in the mirror until it got all steamed up, then I stepped into the shower. The water was hot and it stung, but after a minute, I didn't feel it anymore. I didn't feel anything." He's using the words as weapons, tiny daggers meant to wound.

All Walter can do is close his eyes against the onslaught. "I waited until I could see the veins standing out in my wrists. Then I sat down, pushed the blade of the knife all the way out, and did it. First the left, then the right. It didn't even hurt."

Drake could see Walter's Adam's apple bob erratically in his throat. He knows he should stop, but he can't. Not until he's said it all. "The blood was darker than I thought it would be," he says. He's standing less than two feet from Walter and can hear his stepfather's ragged breaths rasp through his nose.

Walter opens his eyes at that, meets Drake's across the small expanse. A tear escapes one eye and rolls down his cheek. He doesn't move to wipe it away.

Drake is unmoved. "I watched it as it flowed down the drain. It just kept coming. But after a while I started to feel cold. And it didn't make sense. I mean, the water was so _hot._ How could I be so cold?"

"That's enough," Walter manages, clenching his hands into fists. "Please."

"That's all there is," Drake says, shrugging. He takes a step back. "There's nothing left to tell."

Except that's a lie and they both know it.

* * *

He's sitting in the Suburban, grasping the steering wheel tightly, trying to control the shaking that threatens to take over his body. He somehow managed to make it through the day and had only called another student "Mr. Parker" once. Second period had been the worst, though; he couldn't seem to keep his eyes from flitting to the empty desk in the back corner.

Suicide. His mind can't grasp it. It's all his fault.

_Drake is angry with him for showing up there._

"_What are you doing here?" Drake hisses, anger coloring his cheeks._

"_I had to see you," he answers. "I'm sorry." He sounds desperate and he knows it. "But you won't return my calls."_

_Something flashes in Drake's eyes then, something he's never seen before. "You're killing me," the boy finally whispers, looking away._

That had been a week ago last Saturday.

* * *

_Reviews are like clues in a mystery - very much appreciated. Thanks!_


	14. Unpleasant Surprises

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_ **The plot thickens... Enjoy!

_

* * *

__Chapter 14: Unpleasant Surprises_

_Drake was nervous. He looked at his watch – something he rarely wore – and frowned when he realized that only three minutes had passed since the last time he looked at it._

_Restless, he pushed himself from the chair and strode over to the refreshment counter, propping his forearms on the glass and leaning against them. "Hey Josh," he said, tapping his fingertips against the glass in an irregular beat._

_Josh had his back turned to him; he was helping a customer and his movements made his gold vest sparkle in the light. He didn't respond to Drake's entreaty._

"_Josh," Drake tried again, louder this time, leaning in a little._

_Still, Josh didn't respond._

_Frustrated, Drake reached over the counter and grabbed a handful of empty soda cups, flinging them at Josh. They bounced off his brother's oversized head and rained to the ground, scattering at his feet._

"_What?!" Josh asked irritably, turning around and facing his brother, shooting him a look that could fuse atoms. "Can't you see that I'm a little busy here?"_

_Drake cast a brief glance over Josh's shoulder, quickly noting the long line at the soda fountain and the lack of help behind the counter. "Oh, yeah. Right." He shrugged. "Sorry."_

"_Thank you!" Josh said, flustered, gesturing emphatically as he turned back towards the line._

_Drake walked behind the counter and started scooping candy out of the glass case, piling it on top of the counter. "Free candy here! Get your free candy!"_

_Suddenly there was a mad rush as greedy teenaged moviegoers grabbed whatever they could get their hands on and rushed towards the theaters. Josh could only stand there and stammer, reaching blindly for the few boxes of candy left after the stampede, then glared darkly at Drake when the rush was over._

"_What?" Drake asked, grinning slightly. "I was helping."_

"_Helping?" Josh asked incredulously. He looked down at the two boxes of Sno Caps in his hands, then at the empty candy case, then back at Drake. "Helen's gonna kill me."_

"_Yeah, yeah," Drake said, brushing off his brother's plight. "I don't have time for your problems right now. I need a favor."_

"_Oh, no." Josh waved his hands in the air between them, the candy rattling in his hands. "No no no." He shook his head emphatically._

"_You don't even know what it is yet," Drake said, his voice carrying a note of wheedling._

"_Don't care." Josh shook the boxes of candy again. "I'm busy, Drake. Adam called in sick and Carrie is already an hour late and I've still got to collect the money from the matinee shows and now I've got to restock the candy," he explained quickly. He gave his brother a pointed look. "Thanks to you."_

"_But, Josh…"_

"_No 'buts'. You see this gold vest?" Josh continued, cutting him off, transferring the box of candy from his right hand to his left and plucking at his vest with a forefinger and thumb. "It means that I'm in charge, Drake. Me. Which means that when there's no one else, I've got to do it." _

"_What about Gavin?" Drake asked._

"_Gavin?" Josh asked, confusion crinkling his eyes. "Gavin doesn't work here anymore."_

_Drake pointed over Josh's left shoulder. "Well, you might want to tell him that."_

_Josh turned to find Gavin in all his mullet-headed glory gazing back at him impassively over the empty candy case, red vest and all. "There's a duck swimming in one of the toilets in the men's room. Helen said to get it out," he said to Josh in his trademark monotone._

"_Didn't you quit?" Josh asked, staring at him._

_Gavin shrugged. "Guess not."_

_A moment passed before realization lit Josh's eyes. "Wait…did you say 'duck'?"_

_Holding his hands up so that they were just a few inches apart, Gavin replied, "Just a little one." Then he turned and walked away._

_Josh stared after him for a few seconds before shaking his head in exasperation._

"_So, Josh," he heard Drake say behind him, "about that favor…"_

_Josh closed his eyes against the sound of his brother's voice. "What?" he asked resignedly, sighing as he turned back towards Drake._

_Drake just grinned. "I need you to keep a lookout for me."_

"_For what?" Josh asked._

"_You know," Drake replied, nudging him. "For Ginger. I'm supposed to meet her here." He looked at his watch. "In nine minutes."_

_Josh's eyebrows drew together for an instant before clarity lit up his face. A slow smile spread across his lips. "Ah, yes. Mystery Girl." 'Ginger' was the name Drake had given to his secret admirer while they were watching a _Gilligan's Island_ marathon on TV Land. Drake thought it sounded sexy._

_Drake rubbed his hands together nervously, his dark eyes scanning the lobby quickly before settling back on Josh. "She'll be here any minute." He let out a ragged breath._

"_Drake Parker, are you nervous?" Josh was enjoying this._

_A sheepish grin curved Drake's mouth. "A little," he admitted, shrugging._

"_Well, I'll –" Josh began, smiling._

"_I got it," Gavin muttered, interrupting him as he walked past them with a duck under his arm._

_Both Drake and Josh stared after him for a moment, then looked back at each other. "What's the matter with you?" Josh asked his brother. "You don't get nervous."_

"_I know, man. But I can't help it. I mean," he responded, his eyes darting to the entrance and then back again, "what if…what if she's not what I expect?"_

"_You mean what if she's not a super-hot swimsuit model who has a thing for wannabe rock stars with shaggy hair?" Josh retorted facetiously._

"_Yeah," Drake said immediately. Then, "Wait…"_

"_Drake," Josh said evenly, resting his hand on Drake's shoulder. "You've built her up so much that Heidi Klum could walk in here in a bikini and you'd be disappointed."_

_Drake seemed to think about it for a moment. "You're right," he said finally. "I need to just relax." He smiled, nodded. "I'm sure she's hot. No, I _know_ she's hot. Of course she is," he said reassuringly to himself._

"_Excuse me," a voice said impatiently._

_The boys looked to see a long line forming once again at the counter. A boy about their age looked angrily at them. "Could I get some help here? My movie's about to start."_

"_Sure," Josh muttered, turning towards the counter. "O-Of course. What can I get you?"_

"_I'd like pack of Twizzlers and a large Coke."_

"_Er," Josh replied, peering through the glass and seeing the still-empty candy display gaping at him. "We're out of Twizzlers. All we've got left is two boxes –" he continued, holding out the two boxes of Sno Caps he still held in his left hand. But one box was snatched away by a freckle-covered arm that he knew well. "Um, one box –" The other box was snatched out of his grasp. "We're out of candy," he muttered darkly._

_He hazarded a glance out of the corner of his eye as Drake began to walk away, heard the rattle of the candy as he tore open one of the boxes. "She'll be wearing a green shirt," he heard Drake reply over the din as he made his way to the tables on the far side of the lobby. "So keep an eye out."_

* * *

_Drake settled into an empty table near the wall but close to the restrooms so he could unobtrusively watch the people entering the movie theater. He wanted to see her before she saw him, so if he decided to back out, he could escape into the men's room. His dark eyes scanned every girl that walked in, looking for a green shirt._

_He looked at his watch. Five minutes. He flicked his gaze over to Josh, who was still busy waiting on customers, his arms moving with practiced ease. Drake frowned; Josh was going to be no help at all._

_Shifting in his chair, he tried to look casual, crossing his left ankle over his right knee and leaning back, one arm draped across the back of his chair. His other hand played nervously with the empty candy boxes, which lay crumpled on the table in front of him; he had eaten both boxes hurriedly in his nervousness and now his stomach was rebelling._

_He looked at his watch again. Three minutes._

_He took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. Why was he so nervous, anyway? It had been his idea to finally meet. He hadn't been able to hold out any longer with the not knowing; it was starting to drive him crazy. He had even made a conscious effort in the last two weeks to try to make eye contact with every girl in school, hoping to see that flicker of acknowledgement in their eyes. He even risked bodily injury to meet the gazes of the girls who hated him in order to discover the identity of his secret admirer._

_Nothing._

_Finally, as a last resort, he had actually approached the girl from study hall – the one he had caught looking at him over her copy of _Huck Finn._ He smiled at her as the blush crept up her neck and formally introduced himself, offering his hand to her._

_She had been frozen at first, gazing at him through huge blue eyes that didn't blink. When he asked, she had shyly told him her name was Maddie. He had pursued the conversation, saying casually that he noticed she hadn't been in study hall lately. She had started to relax a little, sharing with him that she had been put into Advanced Placement English and her schedule had changed. She had study hall second period now._

_They had chatted a little longer about small stuff and he had discovered that he liked her laugh and the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. He wasn't smitten, just charmed. But he had walked away convinced that she was not 'Ginger'. She was just too innocent; and if she wasn't, then she was a heck of an actress. Besides, Ginger had told him that she had blonde hair and Maddie's hair was brown. But it had been worth a shot anyway. Later, when they passed each other in the hall, she would smile at him. But they hadn't spoken since._

_Drake looked at his watch for what felt like the thousandth time. It was 7:33pm. He frowned; either he'd missed her or she was late. Or, he thought reluctantly, she decided not to show._

_He slumped in his chair, at a loss._

"_You got stood up, didn't you?"_

_Drake didn't look up. He didn't want to see the satisfied smirk that he knew would be adorning his brother's face. "It's still early," he stubbornly replied._

_He could almost hear Josh smile. "Sure, bro." He stood there a moment, looking down at his sulking stepbrother in amusement. Finally, he sighed. "Well, Carrie finally showed up, so now I can get back to what I'm supposed to be doing." When Drake didn't respond, Josh just shrugged and started to walk away. Then, suppressing a grin, he spun around and said, "Dude! I think I see her. You said a green shirt, right?"_

_Drake's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Josh's, then his gaze flitted to where Josh was pointing. Near the entrance was a woman, 65 years old if a day, wearing a green pullover sweater and yellow polyester pants. She was clutching the arm of an elderly man as they walked slowly towards the ticket counter._

_Clenching his jaw, Drake turned a dark look on Josh, who was doing a very poor job of hiding his laughter. "Very funny," he said through his teeth._

_Josh laughed, then made an effort to get more serious. "Look, man. She might still show."_

_Drake glanced at his watch again. 7:37pm. "Whatever." He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant._

"_Hey, I've really got to get back to work," Josh said, his voice softening. All the amusement was gone. "I'll see you later, okay?"_

_Drake met his brother's eyes, then nodded. "Yeah. See you later." He watched Josh disappear into the back, then slumped down in his chair until his head rested along the back, staring up at the ceiling._

_The sensation of his phone vibrating in his pocket stirred him from his thoughts. Sitting up straight, he dug in his pocket for the phone. Flipping it open, he saw that he had a new text message; he was already smiling when he opened it._

"_sorry im late"_

_Drake's smile turned into an all-out grin as he looked up to scan the room. Besides the old lady, no one else was wearing a green shirt. Quickly, he pressed the REPLY button and typed a response, pressing SEND with his thumb._

"_where r u?"_

_He held his breath as he looked around again, expecting to see a pretty girl in a green shirt walk through the entrance at any second. He was concentrating so hard on the door that he actually jumped slightly when he felt his phone vibrating against his palm. He looked down at it._

"_come find me"_

_Drake laughed, feeling his heart racing with excitement. He typed back, "need a hint"_

_A few seconds later, the response came: "outside"_

_Standing, Drake took one last look around the theater lobby as he headed towards the exit. Pushing through the glass doors, he stepped into the warm night, his boots scuffing against the sidewalk. It was completely dark and the nighttime lights of the city sparkled up and down the street. Throngs of people walked past and Drake could hear laughter and snatches of conversation. He stood on his tiptoes to see over people's heads, looking for Ginger._

_The phone buzzed in his hand. "ur cold"_

_Drake smiled, then stepped away from the theater, dodging the other pedestrians as he melted into the current, heading towards his left._

"_colder" Ginger told him._

_Stopping in his tracks, he turned around, heading in the opposite direction._

"_warmer"_

_Obviously she could see him, so she had to be close. Drake stopped near the edge of the sidewalk, the toes of his boots poking out over the curb. He squinted as he gazed across the street, his eyes searching for someone he had only imagined. Who only _said_ they'd be wearing a green shirt. Maybe that was just part of the game._

_His phone buzzed. "give up yet?"_

"_nope" he texted back. "r or l?"_

_A few seconds passed, then: "r"_

_Drake turned to his right and started walking, waiting for another message to guide him. It came a few steps later. "stop"_

_His heart thudding against his ribs, Drake stopped abruptly. He looked around, but didn't see anyone looking at him – no giggling girl in a green shirt. "i dont c u" he texted back._

"_across the street" came the response._

_Lifting his eyes from his phone, he looked across the street. Directly across from him was a Christian bookstore and a bagel shop. Between the two stores was a loading zone, dark this time of night._

"_r u hiding?" he texted._

"_maybe" Then, a few seconds later, another message. "look 4 me"_

_Drake squeezed the little phone in his fingers, then took a breath and crossed the street at a jog, checking for traffic. When he reached the opposite sidewalk, he looked around for someone watching him, but all he saw were people paying him no mind as they went about their business._

_He turned his attention to his phone, typing a quick message. "let me c u"_

_A moment later, the response. "ur almost there"_

_Fighting back growing frustration and a vague feeling of apprehension, he looked around again. This girl better be _gorgeous _for all the trouble she's putting him through, he thought. He was standing in front of the Christian bookstore – garishly named "Crucifiction" – and he stepped up to the glass and looked inside. The only people he could see between the displays of bibles and the shelves of ceramic figurines of Jesus and the Apostles were an elderly clerk behind the cash register and a heavy-set African-American woman with her nose buried in a copy of _Left Behind.

_He looked to his left. A crowd of twentysomethings spilled out onto the sidewalk outside a tiny Italian restaurant that shared a wall with the bookstore, sweating bottles of beer gripped in their fingers. He looked to his right – there was a dark patch of sidewalk where the loading zone was, then the bagel shop beyond it._

_Bagel shop, he decided, and turned to his right. He was halfway there when his phone buzzed. "ur here"_

_Drake looked around, found himself ensconced in the shadows emitting from the darkened loading zone. He took a tentative step further into the shadows, then stopped, trying to pick out shapes in the dark space. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out a ramp leading to a metal door and what looked to be a light fixture above it. The bulb, apparently, wasn't working. Sharp smells of garbage and motor oil filtered into his nose._

_His phone buzzed again and the blue light from the LCD screen cast him in a ghostly light. "r u scared?"_

_A nervous laugh escaped his throat and he swallowed hard to suppress it. "You can come out now," he said into the shadows, his voice bouncing off the walls and the warm pavement beneath his feet._

_Another message. "just a few more steps"_

"_But I want to see you," Drake said, trying to keep his voice calm. The fun was wearing off, replaced by an anxiety he couldn't justify._

"_come on"_

_With a heavy sigh and a pounding heart, Drake walked further into the shadows until the darkness seemed to swallow him whole. He stopped on the edge of the pool of faint light cast by the streetlamps. It was cooler here, away from the bustle of the street. "Okay, I'm here," he said softly. "It's your turn."_

_A long moment passed in silence. Then, Drake heard what he thought was the sound of footsteps on gravel. He turned towards the sound just as he heard the words, "Hello, Drake."_

_The voice was familiar and was distinctly _not_ feminine. An arrow of fear shot through him. "Who–" he began, but then recognition stole his voice._

"_I know I'm not who you expected," Nathan Bradford said evenly. He was standing in front of Drake, his back to the loading zone's entrance. His silhouette was dark against the dim light and muffled sounds of laughter and conversation filtered towards them from the street._

_Drake couldn't speak. He held his phone in a vise grip against his thigh as he stared unblinking at the man in front of him. His breaths escaped raggedly through his nostrils._

"_It was your idea to meet, remember? Not mine." The man's voice carried a hint of the same edge that Drake remembered from Thanksgiving and he shuddered involuntarily against the sound._

"_I thought…" Drake managed, his mouth suddenly dry._

"_I know what you thought, Drake," Nathan replied. "But you were wrong."_

"_I…you lied," Drake whispered._

_Nathan laughed, a low rumble that seemed to roll from his lips like distant thunder. "I never lied to you. You asked me what color my hair was. I said blond. You asked me what color my eyes were. I said blue. I told you that you see me everyday at school. All of that's true."_

_Drake could tell he was smiling. "But…" _

"_You just assumed I was one of those shallow girls who fawn all over you in the hallway," Nathan said hotly, anger sharpening his voice. He took a breath, let it out slowly, and Drake could feel it lightly against his face. Nathan leaned in, whispering, "But I'm not."_

_Those words seemed to awaken Drake's senses and he moved quickly to his left, trying to get past. His dark eyes flicked to the people passing by on the sidewalk, then back to Nathan, who had stepped smoothly in front of him, blocking his way. "What's your hurry?" Nathan asked softly. "I just want to talk."_

_Drake's eyes burned and anger mingled with the fear that crept along his skin. "Get away from me," he said through clenched teeth. "Before I call the fuckin' cops." He held up his phone, thumb poised over the '9'._

_Nathan clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Such language, Mr. Parker," he said, effortlessly switching into his teacher persona. "Swearing at a teacher. Just think how disappointed your mother would be to hear that."_

_Drake clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth would crack. "Go to hell," he growled and pushed past the man, his right shoulder bumping against Bradford's arm. _

_He was stopped short by warm fingers circled tightly around his wrist. "Let go of me," he whispered, silently cursing the note of pleading in his voice._

_Nathan just looked at him and Drake could feel the man readjust his grip on his wrist. "I can't." And his voice sounded strangled, like he couldn't breathe._

"_I'll scream," Drake warned, his eyes flicking once again to the people passing by on the sidewalk. They were less than twenty-five feet away, but they seemed like they were in another world altogether._

_Nathan closed his fingers tighter around Drake's wrist and Drake could feel his watch cutting into his skin. "I don't think you will," Nathan challenged._

_Drake leveled his stare at him through the darkness. "Oh yeah? Think again," he spat and turned his face towards the loading zone entrance, opening his mouth. But the sound was knocked from his throat by the impact of his body against the wall and he suddenly found himself pinned, unable to move. What little air he had burned in his lungs. He struggled vainly to break free._

"_I'm sorry," Nathan whispered, his lips against Drake's ear. "I don't want to hurt you." He let his head fall against the curve of Drake's neck. The full length of his body was holding Drake in place and Drake could smell the sharp scent of aftershave and sweat._

"_Please," Drake whispered. "Please just let me go. It's okay." But it wasn't. It wasn't okay and he closed his eyes against the fear that threatened to consume him._

"_I'm sorry," Nathan whispered again._

"_It's okay," Drake repeated, opening his eyes. He could see the curve of the man's shoulder, could feel his hair against his cheek, could feel the force of his breaths as he inhaled and exhaled, his chest pressing against Drake's. "Just let me go. I won't tell anyone."_

_That seemed to be the wrong thing to say because Nathan snapped his head up and focused what Drake knew to be piercing blue eyes on him. But in the darkness, they looked black. "Tell them what?" Nathan asked, almost hissing the words. He pressed harder against Drake and the boy gasped against the pressure._

"_N-Nothing," Drake managed. He felt like he was going to be sick and swallowed instinctively against it._

_Nathan glared at him for a long moment, then seemed to relax a little, slumping back against Drake. "No one would believe you anyway," he whispered, so softly that Drake barely heard him, even from so close._

_Drake closed his eyes against the words, but he knew the man was right. He didn't believe it himself and he was living it. "Mr. Bradford," he whispered._

"_Call me Nathan."_

"_Nathan," he said, swallowing against the bitter taste of the name on his tongue. "Please let me go." He tried again to move, but found he couldn't._

"_I just want to be friends," Nathan replied softly, the words warm and moist against Drake's neck. "That's all."_

_But Drake knew the man wanted more than that, could feel it pressing against his right hip. Another wave of nausea flowed through him and the acidic taste of bile rose in the back of his throat. "Please," he whispered as he blinked back tears._

_Drake could feel Nathan take in one long, deep breath, then let it out slowly, the warm air tickling the hair on the back of his neck. Lifting his head, Nathan looked at Drake, his face just a couple inches away. "I can't let you go," he whispered desolately._

_After another moment, he stepped back and Drake almost slumped to the ground. He clutched at the wall, getting his feet steady beneath him, and concentrated on pulling air into his lungs. When he felt strong enough, he looked at Nathan, who stared back at him in silence._

"_I'm sorry." But the words had lost their meaning._

_Drake just shook his head as he made his way back to the world outside the one he was trapped in, back to the world where he had control over his life. He tried to concentrate on the sound of his boots on the gravel, hoping the sound would drown out the white noise that was starting to fill his head._

_But it didn't._

* * *

_The room was dark and Josh was in bed when Drake opened the door to their bedroom long after midnight. Closing the door behind him, he stood on the platform and leaned against it._

_He felt brittle, like any pressure against his skin would cause him to crumble into pieces. His bed looked so far away and the mere thought of climbing the ladder made his knees weak – enough so that he sunk to the floor where he stood. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he folded his arms across them and rested his head against the door._

_His eyes fluttered closed, but the darkness behind his eyelids reminded him of everything he had spent the last several hours trying to forget. But the memories were still there, clinging to his skin like grains of sand, as sharp and clear as if they had just happened._

_His voice. His breath. His smell. The fear that had percolated from deep inside, blotting out everything else._

"_Drake?"_

_The voice was thick with sleep, but Drake could still hear the note of relief in it. "Yeah," he said softly, lifting his head with effort to meet his brother's eyes._

_Josh sat up, rubbing his eyes with the meaty parts of his hands as he yawned. "When did you get home?"_

"_Just now."_

_Tilting his head slightly, Josh studied his brother through the moonlit darkness. "You okay?"_

_Drake's lips trembled and he was thankful for the darkness. "Yeah," he said. "Just tired."_

"_You disappeared on me," Josh replied, more awake now. He crossed his legs Indian-style beneath the covers. "Did Mystery Girl show up?"_

_Drake closed his eyes against the question. "No," he answered simply, opening his eyes again._

_Josh frowned. "I'm sorry."_

_But the words made Drake feel sick. He stood up shakily, gripping the doorknob for balance. "I'm…" he began, swallowing. "I'm gonna go take a shower." And without a second glance at Josh, he left the room._

_Two minutes later, his clothes were laying in a pile on the bathroom floor and he was standing under the water, trying to wash the sand from his skin._

_But no matter how hard he scrubbed, it wouldn't come off._

* * *

Please review. Thank you.


	15. Shades of Truth

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_ **Follow the breadcrumbs... Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 15: Shades of Truth

The knob clicks loudly as he turns it, the sound bouncing off the bare walls and cement floor of the laundry room. It is Friday evening and Josh is trying to keep busy, trying to keep the significance of the day at bay. His fingers linger on the knob of the washing machine, his eyes staring at the words around it without comprehension. Regular or permanent press? He isn't sure, so he chooses regular. Regular is good. Regular is great.

Bending to the basket of dirty clothes, he grabs a shirt from the top of the pile, shakes it out, then drops it into the empty basin. He grabs another, repeating the procedure. He does this by rote, not even thinking, checking pockets for loose change or other objects. The last piece of laundry at the bottom of the pile is a pair of his jeans and he bends to pick them up. He slides his fingers into the back pockets, then into the left hip pocket. Empty. But when he slips his hand into the right hip pocket, his fingers hit something hard. Securing his fingers around it and pulling it out, he discovers what it is – Drake's phone.

He stares at it, memories flashing across his mind like shooting stars – memories he'd rather forget. His fingers close around the object tightly for a moment before he manages to shove the thing in his pocket, focusing his attention once again on his task as he drops the jeans into the machine. Pulling the knob out, he hears the water splash into the basin. After several seconds, the steam starts to rise like a cloud of humidity; he can feel it on his face as he stares down into it. Reaching for the soap, he untwists the cap and pours the viscous blue liquid carefully, squeezing the cap tightly to calm the sudden trembling in his fingers. He dumps the detergent over the clothes as the water rises around them and then closes the lid with a gentle click.

Turning from the washer, he walks out of the laundry room and back into the house, heading towards the kitchen. When he pushes through the swinging door, he sees Megan sitting at the table, staring at a carton of chocolate milk that she's gripping in her hands. She doesn't look up.

"Hey, Megs," he says softly.

"Hey." She's concentrating hard on the carton, like it's going to do a trick.

Josh studies her for a moment before asking carefully, "Whatcha doin'?"

It takes a moment for her to answer, then she shrugs and says, "I was just wondering something."

"What's that?" He takes a step towards her, rests his hands along the back of the empty chair across from her.

She finally looks up at him, her dark eyes meeting his across the table. "I was just wondering if Drake drank out of this carton."

Josh's fingers seize around the chair.

"It's just that, you know," she continues slowly, "he might've. He did…_does_ that all the time. And I was thinking…" She stops, taking a breath. "I was thinking that maybe he drank some right before…" She turns away, looking back down at the carton again.

Josh just watches her, not knowing what to say. He sees her run her fingers along the sides of the carton, then wipe them on her purple sleep pants. He swallows past a growing lump in his throat and says, "I don't know, Megs. Does it matter?"

She shakes her head slowly. "I guess not." Looking at him again, she adds, shrugging, "I was just wondering."

Another silent moment passes before Josh decides that a change of subject is needed. "You hungry?" he asks with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

She shrugs again. "A little."

Josh knows that 'a little' really means 'not really', but he needs to keep busy and they need to eat despite everything, so he walks to the refrigerator and opens it, ducking his head inside. "Let's see," he says, his voice muffled by the fridge. His eyes scan the contents – week-old tuna casserole, some old pizza with a dubious provenance, a half-full container of cottage cheese, and a few slices of sandwich cheese. Frowning over the selection, he reaches for the cheese and emerges from the fridge. "How about…" he says, walking over to the microwave and opening it up, grabbing the bread and looking it over, checking for mold. There are no visible signs. He turns to face his sister. "…grilled cheese sandwiches?"

Megan stands, picking the milk up off the table and placing it back in the refrigerator. "Whatever," she says indifferently.

"Or I could call Mom and Dad and ask them to pick up something on their way home," he offers. Their parents are still at the hospital, meeting with Drake's doctor. There is a chance that Drake may be able to come home next week since he's healing well and has shown no signs of wanting to tear his stitches out again. Josh isn't sure Drake is ready but no one asked him and so he keeps his opinions to himself.

"Don't bother them, Josh," Megan replies. "Grilled cheese is fine." She heads towards the door. "I'll be in the living room." Then she disappears.

Josh stares after her for a long moment, at a loss. He's never seen Megan so listless before, even when she's sick. An unexpected current of anger courses through him, so strong that it makes him tremble. It's all Drake's fault, he thinks. Drake did this to her. To them. He's always been so goddamn selfish.

But then the sight of his brother lying lifeless in the tub explodes across his brain, eclipsing everything else, and a wave of guilt washes over him. Not selfish, he thinks. Shattered.

Josh is trapped between two emotions he cannot escape from and he feels like he can't breathe. He doesn't want to think about it anymore, but it's like having a sunburn and then trying to pretend that the sun doesn't exist.

He busies himself with making dinner - getting out the frying pan and turning on the burner; buttering four slices of bread, carefully laying two pieces butter-side down in the pan and hearing the soft sizzle as the cold butter meets the warm pan; unwrapping the cheese slices and layering them evenly on the two pieces of bread; and finishing the process by placing the other two pieces of bread on top of each sandwich. Five minutes later, he scoops the sandwiches onto two plates, the melted cheese oozing out of the sides.

When he walks into the living room, he finds Megan squished into one corner of the couch, her legs curled underneath her. She's holding a throw pillow against her stomach as she stares at the television.

"Sandwiches are ready," Josh says softly, holding her plate out to her.

She turns her head, acknowledging him, then reaches for the plate. "Thanks," she mutters as she balances the plate on the pillow and turns her eyes back to the television.

Josh sinks into the cushions on the other end of the couch, resting his plate on his thigh. He lifts his sandwich to his lips, but when he sees what Megan's watching, he stops short.

"Turn that off," he says through his teeth, staring at the television. His hands drift back to his plate. He suddenly feels cold.

She's watching a video compilation of several of Drake's gigs with the sound off. Josh had had the DVD made for their brother last Christmas from the many VHS tapes that had been piling up in their room. The last time Josh had seen it, Drake had been watching it upstairs in their room.

"I'm watching it," she says, her voice small. She tears off a small piece of her sandwich and puts it in her mouth, not taking her eyes from the screen.

Josh sets his plate on the end table next to the couch. He no longer feels hungry. "I said," he says slowly, "turn it off."

Megan looks at him, a spark of her old defiance in her eyes. "No," she says. "If you don't want to watch it, then go upstairs." And she turns once again to the television.

Josh gets up, white-hot anger propelling him, and takes the few steps around the coffee table to the television, turning it off. He stands in front of the darkened screen, his hands balled into loose fists, and glares at his little sister. "Where did you get it?" he asks icily.

The fire is gone from her gaze and he can see her sink further into the cushions. "I –" she begins and the sound is barely audible.

"How many times have we told you to stay out of our room, huh? How many?" he screams at her. And he knows it's not fair, but he can't stop.

"I'm sorry," she whispers and even from several feet away, Josh can see the tears welling in her eyes. "I just wanted…" But she doesn't finish. Instead, she pushes the pillow off her lap and onto the floor, plate and all, and runs upstairs.

Josh watches her go, his anger slowly dissolving away until the adrenaline that fueled it gives way to a hollowness in his bones that makes his knees weak. He reaches blindly for the coffee table, collapsing onto it, burying his face in his hands.

The washing machine buzzes faintly in the distance.

* * *

When he knocks softly on her door nearly an hour later – after transferring the laundry to the dryer and popping in another load, cleaning up after their disastrous dinner, and mopping the kitchen floor for the fifth time that week – there is no response from the other side.

Knocking again, he offers a tentative, "Megan?"

No answer.

A sudden, inexplicable fear grips him, seizing his breath, and he reaches a trembling hand to the doorknob and pushes it open. He lets his breath out in a rush when he sees her in bed sleeping, her face turned towards him. The lamp next to her bed is on and he can see that her skin looks blotchy; she's been crying.

He wants to apologize but he doesn't want to wake her. Walking into the room, he gently pulls the covers up to her shoulder and switches of the lamp. Brushing her hair carefully away from her face, he looks at her for a long moment in the dim light from the hallway before turning to leave, closing the door softly behind him.

He's taken to showering and brushing his teeth in his parents' bathroom. But since he's already in his pajamas – has been since he got home from school – he forgoes the shower and just brushes his teeth before heading for his bedroom.

It's still a mess; it's the one room in the house that he hasn't cleaned in the last week. Clothes and shoes cover the floor and the sheets on both beds are crumpled. He looks at the clock – it's still early, not even eight-thirty.

Fatigue pulls at him. He can sleep but he can't rest. He can't seem to get comfortable, can't keep his thoughts from wandering into the dark places. But he's got nothing left to do but to keep trying and so he lies down on his bed and closes his eyes, hoping that tonight is the night that he can block it all out and finally get some rest.

But it's not likely.

Shifting restlessly onto his right side, he feels something hard cutting into his thigh, then suddenly remembers what it is. Sitting up, he pulls Drake's cell phone from his pocket and holds it tightly in his hand. In the moonlit room, he flips it open.

Nothing – no light, no sound. The battery is worn down.

Throwing his feet over the side of the bed, he reaches for the lamp next to his bed and flips it on. A small cone of soft yellow light illuminates the area around him and casts an eerie pallor over the rest of the room as the intensity of the light fades across the distance. Standing, he steps down into the room and over to the computer desk, searching for Drake's phone charger. He finds it buried underneath a pile of handwritten sheet music and half-finished lyrics.

Walking back to his bed, he plugs the charger into the outlet nearest him and inserts the other end into the phone. The little phone comes to life after a second, buzzing against his palm as the light from the LCD screen emanates from inside. Josh goes to set the phone on the nightstand but changes his mind, flipping it open instead.

"Phone is off. Phone is charging," the screen tells him as the little battery icon in the upper right-hand corner fills up one bar at a time, then empties, then fills again.

Josh presses the red POWER button with his thumb and after a few seconds, the phone chirps and turns on completely.

"DRAKE." His brother's name is prominently displayed on the little screen, emblazoned over a blue background. A few more seconds pass before a notification pops up on the screen that says there are new text messages waiting in the inbox.

Josh opens the inbox, curiosity fueling his actions. There are 42 text messages, all unread, and as Josh scrolls through the list, two things strike him – nearly half of them are from the last week, and almost all of them are from Ginger.

Ginger. Drake's mystery girl. _That's odd,_ Josh thinks. He didn't know Drake still corresponded with her; he hadn't mentioned her since she stood him up at The Premiere back in February.

He opens the most recent one, dated yesterday afternoon.

"pls forgive me"

A sense of foreboding creeps up Josh's spine. He closes it, opens the next one.

"im sorry"

His hands are trembling now as he scrolls through them, his eyes scanning each one as his mouth goes dry. Something isn't _right_, he thinks. The timing; it's wrong.

"i never meant 2 hurt u"

"its all my fault"

More of the same – message after message of guilt-ridden words. A half-dozen _im sorry_s and two more _pls forgive me_s.

He got to his message, the one he had left for Drake a week ago. He skipped past it, opening another message from Ginger.

"y wont u talk 2 me?"

This one was dated last Thursday night. Josh's heart thudded heavily against his ribs.

He scrolled to the next one. "how many times do i have 2 say im sorry?"

And the next one. "i miss u"

"y r u avoiding me?"

"pls talk 2 me"

"im sorry" It seems to be a running theme.

There are a few from people Josh recognizes – one from Scotty, two from Trevor, another one from Josh himself. But the rest are from Ginger and they're more of the same – beseeching entreaties and pleas for contact.

There's one that makes Josh's breath catch in his throat.

"i need u" It's dated over two weeks ago.

It's the last one in the inbox.

It's just a text message, but there is an urgency, an immediacy to it that makes Josh feel unsettled. The interaction between Drake and Ginger had obviously gone way beyond playful and had morphed into something more serious.

But what bothers Josh the most is the fact that Drake never mentioned it.

He switches to Drake's voicemail, punching in the passcode and pressing the button to activate the speakerphone. There are 32 new voicemails and he presses "1" to begin playing them. He hopes that somewhere in there, he'll hear Ginger's voice.

The first message is from over two weeks ago.

"Hey, bro. It's me. You've got the car and Mom –" Josh saves it, moves on to the next one.

"Hey, Drake. It's Devon. I was wondering if you could –"

Next one. "Yo, Drake. Trevor. I've got an extra ticket –"

There are a half-dozen more like them from friends that Josh knows. But then one catches his attention. It's dated the Sunday before Drake's suicide attempt.

"Hi, Drake. This is Maddie. I just wanted to say…(shaky breath)…I'm okay. Really. And I'm not mad. I just want you know that."

Her voice sounds brittle and Josh's mind flashes on the shy girl from school who approached him at lunch. The one who said she thought Drake was avoiding her.

Her words from a week ago echo through his head.

"_I've been leaving your brother messages since last week, but he hasn't returned my calls." _

Another one from Maddie, dated the same day, but later. "Drake. It's Maddie again. Please call me, okay? I need to talk to you."

"_I'm not upset about what happened."_

Could Maddie be Ginger? Josh wonders. Maybe. But something tells him she's not.

Another one, dated the next day, Monday. "Drake, I didn't see you in school today. I hope you're not avoiding me. I'm okay, really. You didn't hurt me…"

Josh doesn't hear the rest. The words resonate inside his skull.

"_I know he didn't mean it. And I'm not gonna tell anyone."_

"Drake…" he whispers, clutching the phone in his fingers, staring at it like it's going to answer back. "What happened?"

* * *

_Please review. Thank you. And as always, THANKS SO MUCH to everyone who has! It really means a lot._


	16. Downfall

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
_**DISCLAIMER:** _I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

_**A/N 1:**_ I'm on a roll! Three chapters in three days! I don't know if I can keep up this pace, but having a long weekend has helped.

**_A/N 2:_** In case you haven't noticed, I HATE the book _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. _

**_A/N 3:_** This is for **space raider** - there are a few words in the fourth paragraph that you may recognize. Think "Hallelujah." I couldn't resist; it's been in my head all day.

* * *

_Chapter 16: Downfall_

_When Drake was six years old, he used to have nightmares that someone would snatch him from his bed while he was sleeping and take him away from his family. He didn't understand them and whenever he woke up screaming, he could never put a voice to them. He would just curl against his mom's soothing warmth, hiding in her embrace, and close his eyes until his breathing calmed and the fear that had gripped him dissipated._

_When he was eight years old, he played Ben Franklin in a school play about the Founding Fathers. He wore tiny wire spectacles and shiny black shoes with big silver buckles and a pillow under his costume. The wig made his head itch. He was shorter than the other kids – even the girls – and they used to call him "Pee Wee Parker". But he'd show them all. He had two lines to say: "A penny saved is a penny earned" and "Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." He practiced them day and night, everywhere he went, until his mother gently told him to "practice inside his head." On the night of the play, he was ready, knew the lines back to front. He scratched under his wig one last time, pushed up his spectacles, and took a deep breath before the curtain went up…and then nearly fainted when he saw the auditorium full of grown-ups staring back at him. When it was his turn to speak, he froze, then managed to muddle through with a hybrid version of his lines: "A penny that is early to rise makes a healthy man wealthy." He heard muffled laughter behind him from his classmates and then was mortified to feel his big-buckled shoes squish as he turned to walk back to his spot. He ran off stage, tears of embarrassment streaking down his freckled face, and hid in the boys' bathroom until his mom came in and got him. For months after that, he had a new nickname: "Pee Pee Parker." _

_When he was ten, he used to pretend that old Mr. Kirby's gardening shed was a secret fortress. He would sneak inside and close the door behind him and imagine that he was safe from all his enemies, real and imagined. He would sit on the rough wooden workbench, his feet dangling inches from the floor, and listen to the quiet. He liked the smell – the earthy scent of potting soil mixed with the sharp aroma of fertilizer. He also liked the shape of the tools – spades and rakes and pruning shears that could slice right through skin (and did once). There were baby plants in tiny pots along one wall and an old lawnmower in the back corner. There were shovels of various sizes and big gloves with tiny rubber nubs on the palms that went nearly to Drake's elbows when he slipped his hands inside. There was a pair of rubber boots that he could slip his feet into, shoes and all, that reached beyond his knees and stacks of empty plastic pots piled precariously on the floor. It was _his_ place, a place where he could hide away and sort through the things that scared or confused him. Mr. Kirby had caught him there once. But instead of being mad, he simply gave Drake a warm smile and said, "Mind the tools, son" before closing the door behind him. But then Mr. Kirby died and another family moved into the house and they tore down the shed and Drake had to find another place to hide._

_He found it when he was twelve years old in the form of an old guitar he begged his mother to buy him from a yard sale. When he played it, he didn't have to think about all the stuff that bothered him. He could just close his eyes and drift away on minor falls and major lifts, on chords and modulations. Anger dissolved and fear dispersed with each note that drifted from the strings beneath his fingers. Lyrics made manifest his pain and confusion, turned them into tangible things that could be molded into something beautiful and innocuous, something that couldn't hurt him anymore. Music was the salve that healed all of his wounds._

_That is until Drake was seventeen and even music wasn't enough to shield him. That was the year he ran out of places to hide._

* * *

"_You proofed this yourself," Drake muttered between his teeth. "Before I even turned it in." His essay on the Cuban Missile Crisis was bunched in his fist and he was holding it out in front of him like a sword. "You said it was good."_

"_It is," Mr. Bradford replied evenly._

"_Then why –" Drake asked, then stopped, pressing his lips together in a thin line. He already knew the answer._

_It was Monday morning, the first day back after a weekend spent trying to pretend that Friday night had been nothing but a bad dream. There hadn't been any text messages and Drake had nearly convinced himself that he really had imagined the whole thing. Except that when he walked into class that morning and felt Mr. Bradford's eyes on him, heard the irritating note of nonchalance in the way he said, "Good morning, Mr. Parker," Drake knew he had just been kidding himself._

_And when the teacher had slipped his graded essay beneath a gaze that Drake had made a concerted effort _not _to lift and he saw the oversized "D" with the note "See me" written below it in red ink, he knew the nightmare wasn't over._

_Drake glared at the teacher, who looked back at him impassively through calm blue eyes. The classroom was empty – third period was Mr. Bradford's planning period – and Drake could hear the sounds of locker doors slamming and mingling conversations drifting in from the hallway. He stood several feet from Mr. Bradford, who was standing by his desk, and suddenly wished he was closer to the door. "Look, I already told you. I'm not gonna tell anyone." He kept his voice low as his eyes flitted to the hallway and back._

_There was a long pause before Mr. Bradford said, "I know you won't." He walked to the classroom door and closed it with a soft click._

_Drake felt his heart thud against his chest. Mr. Bradford turned to face him. "I want to apologize for my actions on Friday night. I didn't mean to frighten you."_

"_It's alright," Drake muttered, his eyes peering through the small pane of glass on the door, then back to Mr. Bradford's eyes. "No harm done."_

"_It was just supposed to be a game," the man continued softly._

"_A game." Drake's mouth was dry and he tried to swallow. If it was a game, he wished he knew the rules._

"_That's all." Mr. Bradford smiled. "A little bit of fun."_

_Drake just stared. Well, it wasn't fun anymore._

"_I let it go too far." He paused. "And I'm sorry."_

"_Yeah," Drake said. "You've said that." But the look in Mr. Bradford's eyes at his words made him take a step back._

"_So I have," Mr. Bradford snapped, and Drake could see the other side of the man peering out at him through those sharp blue eyes. "But I believe it bears repeating." He took a step closer to Drake, then stopped. "I'm being sincere."_

"_I know you are," Drake said, cursing the fear in his voice. "I didn't mean to imply that you weren't."_

_Mr. Bradford seemed to consider this, then shrugged. "I'm sorry about your essay, too," he replied. "But I needed a little insurance."_

_Drake laughed then, a harsh sound that tore from his throat before he could stop it. "It's just an essay, Mr. Bradford," he said, waving the crumpled paper between them. "That's not much insurance." The words burst from his mouth like compressed air, drawn from a well of courage deep inside. But as soon as they left his mouth, he felt the bottom drop out, and his insides turned to liquid._

_A cold smile curved Mr. Bradford's lips. "Progress reports come out next week, Mr. Parker."_

"_You…" Drake whispered. "You wouldn't."_

_The man chuckled. "I'd hate to see you fail my class," he said. "Especially after you've worked so hard."_

"_You can't do that." He could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck. "I _need_ this class to graduate." He could barely hear his own words over the noise in his head._

_Mr. Bradford's gaze didn't stray from Drake's. "So you do," he finally said. He reached for the doorknob with his right hand, pulling it open as he stepped aside._

_Drake had to will his feet to move and the few steps to the door felt like miles. When he finally reached it, he felt Mr. Bradford's fingers wrap firmly around his upper arm and he had to stifle a shiver – he remembered that touch. He didn't turn to face him, just stared out into the empty hallway and wished he was anywhere else._

"_Perhaps we can come to a compromise," the teacher whispered, and Drake closed his eyes against the words._

_Mr. Bradford squeezed Drake's arm before letting him go and Drake stepped quickly into the hallway._

"_Mr. Parker, your pass," he heard the man say behind him, his voice as light as if nothing at all had just transpired._

_But Drake just ignored him, kept walking, and ran right into Mr. Sanderson, who was coming out of the boys' restroom in search of stragglers._

"_Drake Parker," the assistant principal said, appraising the young man in front of him. "You are aware that the late bell has rung, are you not?"_

"_Yes, sir," Drake muttered, not meeting the man's eyes._

_The man frowned. "I'm afraid this is your third infraction this month. Do you know what that means?"_

"_Yes, sir," Drake replied meekly, unable to conjure up one of his witty comebacks._

_Mr. Sanderson reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tear-pad of detention slips. He scribbled quickly on it, then handed the top sheet to Drake, leaving the yellow carbon copy on the pad. "I'm sure Mrs. Almeida will be pleased to see you again," he said, smiling slightly. "Now get to class."_

"_Yes, sir," Drake muttered, walking heavily to Mr. Johnson's Algebra class._

* * *

_Mrs. Almeida looked up from the stack of papers in front of her when Drake shuffled through the door after school. Doing her best to suppress a smile, she said, "Ah, Drake. So nice to see you. It's been a while."_

_Drake willed himself to smile. "Hi, Mrs. Almeida," he mumbled, fishing the crumpled detention slip out of his pocket and handing it to her. She was one of the few teachers that Drake actually liked. He had had her for Pre-Algebra last year. She was nice and she liked him, always smiling and joshing him good-naturedly. He had gotten to know her mainly through his time spent in detention; sometimes he was the only one in it. They would chat about all kinds of things; that's how he found out that her son played football in the fall and baseball in the spring. Which is the reason why she didn't seem to mind being the detention monitor – she was waiting for his practices to get over anyway._

"_We've been saving your seat for you," she quipped, nodding her head in the direction of the desk in the middle of the back row. This time she smiled._

"_Thanks," Drake said without comment and made his way to the desk. He slumped into it, letting his backpack slide to the floor with a thud. Slouching in his seat, he slid his feet under the desk in front of him and looked around. _

_There were five other students in the room – two girls and three boys. He only recognized one of them – Randall Jordan, a giant hulk of a boy in a beat-up leather flight jacket who was repeating eleventh grade. He'd already had to repeat tenth. Drake had gone to elementary school with Randall, from kindergarten through fifth, and remembered him as the boy who nearly choked on a mouthful of paste and who once killed the class hamster by putting it in the microwave when it was his turn to take care of the animal for the weekend._

_Randall was deficient intellectually, but what he lacked in brains, he more than made up for in bulk. He was nearly six feet tall by the time he reached fifth grade and towered over Mrs. Lilly in the class picture. But he was always picked first in PE no matter what the sport and Drake had always managed to stay on his good side by offering him the dessert from his lunch every day. So when Randall decided that his true calling in life was to be the class bully, he always left Drake alone. Which was good, because Drake had been certain that Randall could step on him and not even notice._

_The girl near the front two rows over cast a surreptitious glance in his direction; Drake caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. When he turned his head to look, she didn't turn away, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw who it was. Sitting up, he grabbed his bookbag and moved to the desk next to hers._

"_Hi," he said._

_Maddie looked at him and smiled shyly. "Hi."_

"_I'm surprised to see you here."_

_A faint blush suffused her face. "This is my first time in detention."_

_Drake smiled – the first genuine smile he'd had on his face all day. "So you're a virgin," he quipped, then regretted it when he saw the look of mortification that widened her eyes and deepened her blush._

_She turned away, fumbling with the edges of her science book. It was open to a section on mitosis._

"_Hey, look," he said quickly, touching her arm. "It was just a joke. A bad joke," he added, shrugging. "I didn't mean anything by it, I swear."_

_He could see her looking at him out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't turn to face him. He withdrew his hand and sat in awkward silence. Finally, he asked, "So, what are you in for?" He smiled again. "Me? I was caught in the hall after the late bell." He leaned in. "My 'third infraction this month', according to Mr. Sanderson."_

_Finally, she turned and Drake could see a hint of a smile on her face. The blush was completely gone. "I told Ms. Davis that I thought that _Huck Finn_ was nothing but a load of racist garbage and that it made me wish that I never learned how to read."_

"_Really?" Drake asked, shocked. She didn't seem the type._

"_Have you read it?" she asked him, turning in her seat to face him more fully as she warmed to her subject. Mrs. Almeida shot them a look – they really weren't supposed to be talking during detention, but as long as they weren't being disruptive, she didn't really mind – and then went back to her papers._

_Drake looked sheepish. "Only the Cliff's Notes."_

"_Yeah, well you're lucky," she replied. Then it was her turn to look sheepish. "I didn't know it was her favorite book. She was so flustered that she couldn't even talk. She just gave me a detention for disrupting class." She smiled then and looked around the room. "But detention isn't so bad, really."_

"_Nah," Drake said. "Mrs. Almeida's really cool. And sometimes you meet some pretty interesting people," he added pointedly, smiling at her._

_She blushed again at that and a silence descended between them for a long moment before she said quietly, "I saw you play."_

_Drake perked up at that. "Yeah? Where?"_

"_At the Town Center Mall. Two months ago."_

_Drake remembered that gig. Of course, he remembered all his gigs, good or bad; he had all the sets catalogued in his brain like a filing cabinet. It was funny how his mind worked; he could tell you the third song they played in a gig a year ago, but he couldn't remember the name of the girl he went on a date with last week. "What was your favorite song?" he asked her._

_She shook her head, ducking it shyly. "They were all good."_

"_Come on," he wheedled playfully. "There had to be one you liked better than the others."_

"_Well," she said, turning to look him in the eyes. "I liked the one where all you did was play the guitar. The one at the end."_

_Drake wrinkled his forehead, remembering, then his face cleared. "That one? That's not a real song. We finished the set and still had some time to fill, so I just made something up." He tilted his head slightly. "You really liked that one the best?"_

_She nodded. "It was pretty."_

"_Thanks," he said. Then he laughed. "Dang," he said lightly. "I wish I remembered it now."_

"_I remember you had your eyes closed while you played it and I kept thinking to myself, 'Wow, he really loves what he's doing.' And I wished that I had something that I loved that much." Then a funny little look of horror crossed her face and she turned away again, flipping a page in her book._

_Drake just looked at her and an odd feeling of serenity washed over him. Most girls gushed about his clothes or his hair or how cool he looked on stage. But not this girl. This girl talked about how obvious it was to her just how much he loved to play. And it gave him a sense of joy he couldn't explain – a welcome sensation, considering the last few days._

"_Hey," he said, digging in his backpack and pulling out a spiral notebook. Pulling his pen out of the spine, he flipped open to a blank page and wrote down his cell phone number. Clicking the pen shut, he laid the paper on top of her book. "Here's my number," he told her, smiling. "I'd like it if you called me."_

_The look she gave him then made him suddenly backtrack. "You don't have to," he said quickly, reaching for the paper. "I just thought, you know, we could talk. About stuff. Just talk. You seemed to…" He closed his eyes and let out his breath. "Never mind."_

"_Drake," she said softly, a small smile curving her lips._

"_You don't have a boyfriend, do you?" he continued, unable to stop the flow of words that were tumbling out of his mouth. "Like a really huge boyfriend who'll stuff me in my locker or something if he finds out I gave you my number."_

_This made her laugh. "No boyfriend," she said, touching his hand. She grasped the paper between her fingers and pulled it from his grasp. She folded it in half, sharpening the crease with her fingernail, and carefully tore it along the fold. Then she took the pen from his hand and scribbled something on the blank half, handing both the paper and the pen to him. It was her phone number._

_He smiled at her and she blushed again, turning away quickly. "Hey," he said softly. "Why are you blushing?"_

_But she couldn't look at him. "I've never given my number to a boy before," she whispered, embarrassed._

"_Well," he said conspiratorially, leaning in to whisper the rest. "If it's any consolation, neither have I."_

_She turned her head at that, a tentative smile lifting the corners of her mouth. She knew what he meant. When he winked at her, it turned into an all-out grin. "That's better," he said, grinning back._

* * *

_Drake was sitting on the couch in the bedroom, acoustic guitar across his lap, trying to remember the song that he played two months ago at the mall. He wasn't having very good luck._

"_Hey, bro," he heard Josh say as the bedroom door opened behind him._

"_Hey." Drake closed his eyes, played a few notes, frowned. That wasn't right, either._

"_Working on a new song?" Josh asked, not recognizing the tune._

_Drake shrugged, throwing his brother a look over his shoulder. "Sort of." He sighed. "More like trying to recreate an old one." He sunk into the cushions. "It's not going well."_

"_How was detention?" Josh asked him, grinning. "Did they miss you?"_

"_Cute," Drake said, setting his guitar down and turning on the couch to look at Josh, who was peeling off his gold vest and kicking off his shoes. "Randall was there."_

"_Randall Jordan?" Josh asked, incredulous. "I thought he dropped out."_

"_He probably should. Pretty soon he'll be old enough to drink." Drake grinned._

"_He already drinks," Josh replied. "He'll just be old enough to buy it."_

_Drake laughed. "That's not all who was there," he said._

_Josh pulled his belt through the loops and hung it on the hook in his armoire. "Yeah? Who else was there?"_

"_Remember that girl from study hall?"_

_Josh brow wrinkled in confusion. "Which one?"_

"_You know, the one I thought liked me."_

"_Be more specific, please," Josh replied, starting to unbutton his shirt._

_Drake looked at his brother, exasperated. "The one with the slacks."_

_Josh grinned. "Ah, yes. The stalker."_

"_She's not a stalker," Drake asserted, suddenly defensive._

"_Okay, so she's not a stalker." He took off his shirt and sniffed it carefully before deciding to hang it up neatly. "What about her?"_

"_She saw me play a couple months ago and says she likes my music." The way Drake said it, you'd think no one had ever said that to him before._

"_So? _I_ like your music." He took off his pants, revealing dark blue boxer shorts._

"_Yeah, but she's a girl." _

_Josh finally stopped disrobing and just stood looking back at his brother. "Am I missing something?" he asked, bending to pick up his shoes and place them in line with the others._

_Drake rolled his eyes, turning completely so he was sitting on his knees, his arms resting along the back of the couch. "It's just that…well, she wasn't all, like, 'Oh, Drake, you're so cool.' 'Oh, Drake, I love your hair.' 'Oh, Drake, could you sign my bra?'"_

_Stopping suddenly, Josh gave his brother an odd look, eyebrows raised._

_Drake just shrugged. "Dude, it happens."_

"_So, don't tell me," Josh replied after a moment. "She – oh, perish the thought – likes you for you? It _must_ be love." He rolled his eyes._

"_No, no. It's nothing like that," Drake said. "I just like talking to her."_

"_Well, that's a relationship that's doomed to fail," Josh quipped, grinning, then said, "I'd really love to stay and chat, but I need to take a shower." He gathered up his pajamas. "I've got Physics homework to do."_

"_Have fun," Drake said, turning and sinking back into the couch. He picked up his guitar and tried again to recall a few notes of that song._

_His phone beeped softly from the desk and he smiled. Setting his guitar once again on the couch, he stood up and padded over to retrieve the phone. Flipping it open, his smile immediately vanished when he read the message._

"_tomorrow after school. c u then?"_

_Tomorrow was Tuesday. Tutoring day. He'd forgotten all about it._

_Drake closed his eyes and squeezed the phone tightly in his fingers. _

"I'd hate to see you fail my class." _The menace in the man's voice had been unmistakable._

_Now was his chance – his chance to stop the snowfall before it turned into a blizzard. But he couldn't control the weather, any more than Walter could._

_He looked down at the phone in his hand. With trembling fingers, he opened the reply box._

"_ok" He closed his eyes as he pressed SEND. He couldn't watch himself do it._

_Mr. Bradford had meant what he said; he wasn't going to let him go. Drake could feel the snow falling all around him, burying him alive._

* * *

Please review. Thanks so much!


	17. Secrets and Lies

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
_**DISCLAIMER:** _I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

_**A/N:**_ We're on the home stretch. The pieces are starting to come together... Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 17: Secrets and Lies

"So I hear you're going home today," Dr. Coleman says. It's Tuesday afternoon and she's sitting in the same chair that Walter sat in days ago down the hall from the room that has been Drake's home for more than a week. "That must make you happy."

Drake's standing near the window, leaning against his left shoulder as he peers through the slats of the vertical blinds. It's a sunny day; a perfect day for a homecoming. He's got his arms crossed against his chest, hands buried in his armpits. "I guess."

"It probably won't be easy," she says, studying his profile, "slipping back into your life."

He doesn't answer her immediately, just looks down into the parking lot seven floors below. He sees people coming and going, moving through their lives uninterrupted. He envies them. "My life," he finally says softly, sighing, his breath fluttering the blinds. He leaves the thought unfinished.

"It's going to take a little time to get back into the swing of things," she continues and the hint of cheerleader pep in her voice grates on his nerves. "But there's no rush. Take it easy. Give yourself some time. Things'll still be there when you're ready."

He turns from the window and stares at her incredulously, a sarcastic smirk tweaking his lips. "Spare me the crap."

She presses her lips together at his sudden vehemence, the scar showing white across her chin.

He takes a step towards her, his arms falling to his sides. The edges of his bandages peek out past his sleeves, which had gotten pushed up slightly when he crossed his arms. "My life," he says again, anger bringing color to his face. "That's just what I didn't want." A bark of laughter, sharp and bitter, bursts from his throat. He gestures widely with his arms, his dark eyes never leaving hers. "But here I am. Still stuck." His voice has grown hoarse and cracks on the last word.

She holds his gaze for a long time and sees something shift behind his eyes. The same defiant hardness is still there, but it's cut with a tinge of vulnerability. "Sometimes," she says very softly, "what scares us the most is our own weakness. The overwhelming realization that we're not as strong as we think we are." She gives him a pointed look.

His gaze wavers suddenly and for the first time since she met him, he lets her see beneath his well-built armor. His eyes are shiny with unshed tears that cling to his lower lids, refusing to fall, and there's a slight tremor in his chin that he tries to stifle by biting the inside of his lower lip. "Drake," she says, standing up. She's not here officially, doesn't have his chart, isn't taking notes. She's here as a friend.

He turns away, finally realizing that perhaps he's revealed too much. He feels raw; her last arrow has hit too close to the mark and he doesn't want to talk anymore. He can hear her behind him, can hear the sound of her shoes on the floor as she takes a step closer and he turns, walks towards the door. "I gotta go," he mumbles.

"The things that scare you can only hold power over you if you let them," she says quickly, needing to say this before he walks out. "But fear can be overcome."

He stops then, his fingers wrapped around the door handle, and swallows past the lump in his throat. He closes his eyes, listening for a moment to the sound of his own breathing.

She continues. "When you were a child and you were afraid of the monsters hiding in the closet, how did you overcome that fear?"

He doesn't answer her.

"Please," she beseeches, "answer the question."

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he finally says, "I stopped believing in monsters."

"That's right," she says, feeling encouraged. "You stopped believ–"

"But I was wrong," he interrupts, turning to look at her over his shoulder, his fingers tightening around the door handle. "I was wrong. Because you know what?" And he shakes his head, a small movement that's barely discernible. "Sometimes there really are monsters hiding in the dark."

The look in his eyes steals her breath and she can only watch in silence as he walks out the door.

* * *

There are balloons. And flowers. And cards. And a friggin' cake. Like he's just been away on a trip or something. Like it's his birthday.

His mother is smiling too much and he avoids looking at her. She hugs him as she whispers, "I made all your favorites," and he bites the inside of his cheek so hard to keep from jerking away that he tastes blood.

Walter's eyes are full of a knowledge he doesn't want and Drake thinks, _You're the one who wanted to know_ and feels no remorse for telling him.

Megan's standing at the end of the dining room table closest to the door, trying to decide if she should smile or cry and Drake locks eyes with her for a moment before turning away, carried into the living room on a current of forced good cheer.

"Josh wishes he could be here to welcome you home," Walter says, "but he had to work. Some sort of crisis or something." And he waves his hand absently in the air as if to say, _It couldn't be helped._

"Sure," Drake mutters, the first word he's spoken since Walter picked him up from the hospital.

He sits on the couch and his mom sits down next to him. He looks around, feeling out of place in his own life.

"All the cards and stuff are from your friends," Audrey is saying, and her overly-cheery voice scrapes along his nerves like sandpaper. "They all hope you get well soon."

"Get well soon," he hears himself repeat. He's staring at the blank television.

"They've been calling and stopping by," Walter says, picking up the thread of the narrative. "Every day, there's another flower delivery. It's starting to look like a florist in here." And he chuckles at his own joke.

"Lots of people care about you, honey," says his mother. She runs her fingers through his hair, feels him tense, then pulls away. He can see her hand hover in the air next to his face, then fall into her lap.

"Do they know?" he asks.

He can hear her sharp intake of breath and he almost smiles. He turns to look at her, his eyes staring unblinking into hers. "Do they?" he repeats.

Audrey's mouth works, but no sound emerges.

"They only know you've been in the hospital," Walter finally says, coming to stand behind his wife at the end of the couch. He lays his hands gently on her shoulders. "They don't know why," he finishes, his voice nearly a whisper.

A malicious smile cuts across Drake's lips. "What, you don't want them to know your son slit his wrists?"

A small, desperate sound escapes from Audrey and she presses her fingers to her lips. "We just thought…" she manages, but can't say the rest.

"You just thought what, Mom?" he interrupts, anger burning in the pit of his stomach. It's the only emotion that he seems to be able to feel on a regular basis anymore. Standing, he glares down at her. "That you could pretend that everything is fine? That you could pretend your son had never wished he was dead?" He tears at his sleeves and pulls them up roughly, revealing the thin layers of cotton that hide his scars. He holds his arms out in front of him like two rapiers, sharp enough to wound.

His mother looks away, down at her hands.

"Drake, that's enough," he hears Walter say, but it's like he's talking from a long distance; the words barely register.

But Drake keeps on. "Look at them, Mom. Go on. Take a look." He stands there, holding out his arms, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

She finally lifts her eyes, but she doesn't focus them on his arms, but on his face. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

Drake feels nothing. "I tried to kill myself, Mom. And no amount of balloons or flowers or favorite foods will change that."

"Drake." His name is like a plea for mercy on her lips.

"I took a razor blade to my wrists because I wanted to die," he continues, each word like a dagger through his mother's heart. "And you can't pretend it didn't happen." His voice is soft but cold and he observes his mother's tears without emotion.

"No one's innocent," he whispers and the comment seems incongruous, but the pointed look he gives his mother puts them into context. His eyes then flit to Walter, whose eyes are wet and whose cheek twitches with tension.

"If you'll excuse me," he says after a long moment, his voice less hostile, "I think I'll skip dinner. It's been a long day and I'm tired." He smiles, but it stops at his mouth. "It sure is great to be home, though." He walks away, past Megan who's still standing at the end of the table, fused to her spot on the floor.

By the time he reaches the top of the stairs, he's shaking so badly that he has to stop on the landing and hold on to the wall to keep from falling. Angry tears sting his eyes and he stumbles into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaning heavily against it.

He just wants to shut the world out for a while, just wants to hide away. The weight of the house, of his life, is closing in around him, pressing against his chest until he can't breathe. His fingers fumble for the lock, but he can't seem to find it. He looks down at the doorknob in frustration and sees that it's different – it's been replaced with one that doesn't have a lock.

The realization strikes him slowly, like it's traveling through mud, and he starts to laugh – a hollow sound that bounces off the hard surfaces and dies in the still air around him.

* * *

The sight of his brother sleeping in the bed that had been vacant for nearly two weeks catches Josh off-guard when he walks into their bedroom close to midnight. He knew Drake was coming home today; in fact, that's the reason he had gone into work early and had offered to stay late. He was ashamed to admit it, but he just hadn't wanted to be there when Drake walked through the door.

And he could tell by the carefully wrapped food in the refrigerator and the fact that the ubiquitous flowers were missing from the living room that the homecoming had not gone well. He knew it wouldn't, knew that Drake was too wrapped up in his own pain to appreciate the gesture. Drake doesn't want flowers and balloons; he wants everyone else to hurt as much as he does. He doesn't want to be alone in his pain.

He stares across the room at Drake, who's lying on his left side, facing the wall. The dim light from the nightlight in the hallway barely permeates the darkness inside the room, but the moonlight streaming in from the window over the loft bed casts Drake in an almost ghostly light. How many times has he seen Drake in that exact position over the years? Too many to count. And yet, he stares like he's never seen such a sight before.

Finally, he closes the door softly and walks quietly to the far side of his bed, sinking heavily onto its edge. Tension is coiled like a spring between his shoulder blades and he rests his elbows on his knees, lets his head dangle heavily as he closes his eyes.

He doesn't realize he's crying until a tear splashes against the back of his right hand. It's all too much, too much, and his shoulders shake with the force of his grief. But he's careful not to make a sound as he presses the meaty parts of his hands against his eyes; he holds it in, like always, hides it away where no one else can see it.

Relief mixed with fear, that's what it is. The overwhelming relief of seeing Drake in his own bed – his brother home at last, where he belongs; the undeniable fear that Drake is changed forever, that the boy he loves more than himself is now somehow a stranger.

"So what was the crisis?"

Drake's voice startles him and he snaps his head up, wiping roughly at his eyes. "What?" he asks, cursing the hoarseness in his voice. He looks across the room at Drake, who's sitting up, looking back at him through the darkness.

Silence greets his question and hangs in the air like fog.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you got home," Josh says, the unbearable silence drawing the lie from his lips.

Drake shrugs, drawing his knees up under the blankets and resting his arms on them. "You missed a hell of a party," he deadpanned.

"Mom and Dad," Josh replies, locking gazes with his brother, whom he can see more clearly now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. "They're trying, you know." And he hears his brother snort derisively at that.

"Mom," Drake says harshly, "is in denial." His voice is hard, the words sharp.

Josh closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath. "You told her you hated her."

"I meant it."

Anger surges through Josh at Drake's words. Drake has no idea what Audrey has gone through; he hasn't seen the anguish in her eyes or heard the guilt in her voice. "Don't do that," he says, his hands curling into fists. "She blames herself enough."

"Good."

"Jesus," Josh mutters, exasperated. He stands, tugging roughly at the buttons on his vest.

Drake watches his brother's silhouette move in the darkness, sees the jerky movements that signify he's angry. "Aren't you gonna ask me?"

Josh's head snaps up at that, his fingers frozen on one of his shirt buttons. He can feel his pulse throb in his neck. "Ask you what?" he whispers, his hands dropping to his sides. But he thinks he knows.

"Why I did it," Drake replies. "No one's asked me that yet." There's a pause, and Josh swears he can see his brother smile. "Go on," he says maliciously. "Ask me."

But Josh doesn't want to play this game. "Who's Ginger?" he asks suddenly, surprising even himself. He didn't want to do this now; he wanted to give his brother a chance to get used to being home. But it's been eating away at him all weekend and now's as good a time as any, he thinks.

"What?" The word sounds strangled.

"Why didn't you tell me you still talked to her?"

Drake throws off the covers then and scrambles down the ladder, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He walks to the desk, kicking something in the darkness, and turns on the lamp. His hands start pushing papers out of the way; some of them fall to the floor. After a second, he turns to Josh. "Where is it?" he asks sharply, a slightly panicked look in his eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Josh asks, studying his brother in the light. His dark eyes look wild but sunken; dark circles make his skin looked bruised. He's wearing ratty blue flannel sleep pants and a short-sleeved gray t-shirt. Josh can't keep his eyes from focusing on the bandages around his brother's wrists.

"My phone," Drake answers. "Where is it?" And he looks around the room, focuses on the coffee table, goes to it. He pushes things off of it in search of the gadget. When he doesn't find it, he turns to Josh. "You have it."

"Who is she, Drake?" Josh asks again, looking back up at Drake, struggling to keep his voice even and unemotional.

"Give it to me," Drake says between his teeth and Josh can see the white of his brother's knuckles from across the room.

"Tell me," Josh insists and then sees Drake's eyes flit from his face to focus somewhere to Josh's right. Following Drake's gaze, Josh sees what his brother's staring at – the table next to his bed. Josh had put Drake's phone in the drawer and Drake knows it.

Scrambling around the bed, Josh pulls open the drawer and secures his fingers around the small phone just as Drake hops up onto the platform. Josh pulls it out, holding it tightly in his grasp as his brother snatches at it.

"Something happened with her, didn't it?" Josh asks him, meeting his brother's dark eyes. There's a volatile mix of anger and desperation in them that frightens him. "There are over 30 messages from her in the last two weeks. All of them unread," he spits out, thrusting out his fist, the one holding the phone.

But Drake doesn't reach for it. He's gotten very still; the only thing moving is his chest as it rises and falls with each breath. This stillness frightens Josh even more.

"She keeps apologizing to you," he whispers, letting his arm drop to his side, "keeps begging you for forgiveness." He meets Drake's eyes; the desolate look in them tightens his throat. "Forgiveness for what, Drake?"

Drake just stares, his eyes flitting from Josh's face to the phone in his hand, then back to his face. "You had no right," he finally says, his voice low and even.

But this is the wrong thing to say. These words are the spark that ignites the smoldering flames of Josh's anger. "How can you say that to me?" he asks, his voice rising. "_I_ had no right? What about _you_?" He's breathing heavily now, his breaths loud in his ears. "What right did _you_ have to do this to us?"

Drake's lips twist into a cruel expression. "To _you_?" he says. "Excuse me, but I don't recall cutting _your_ wrists."

"You might as well have," Josh says before he can stop himself and the words fall from his lips like stones, cold and heavy.

"Poor Josh," Drake replies nastily. "So hurt. So sensitive."

Josh lets the comment slide, picks up where he left off. "You've always thought that the things you do can never hurt anyone else. But they do. They _always_ do." He's stopped trying to keep the anger out of voice; there's no point to it.

"And you've always thought that everything that goes on in my life is _your_ business," Drake responds, taking advantage of Josh's switch in focus to snatch the phone out of Josh's grasp. "Well, it's not." He glares at his brother for a few more seconds before turning away. He steps off the platform, heads towards the couch. He's got his phone flipped open and is staring at the screen when he hears Josh behind him.

"Maddie says she knows you didn't mean it."

The words stop Drake in his tracks and his fingers tighten convulsively around the phone. He's still staring at the screen, but he no longer sees it.

"She says she won't tell anyone."

Drake reaches for the back of the couch blindly, a sudden wave of nausea burning the back of his throat. He closes his eyes, sees her face. Her eyes are accusing. Her words are fragile.

"_Why are you doing this?"_

Josh keeps talking, his voice barely audible through the noise in Drake's head. "She came up to me at school last week. Asked me to give you that message. I'd forgotten all about it until now."

"Shut up," Drake whispers, but he doesn't think Josh hears him because he just keeps talking.

"Who is she, Drake?"

"Shut up," he repeats, louder this time.

"She said she thought you were avoiding her." A beat. "She said you didn't hurt her. What did she mean by that?" He steps off the platform, takes a few steps towards Drake.

"Shut up!" Drake hisses, finally turning around to face Josh. "Don't talk about her." His mouth is dry and his pulse beats wildly in his neck. He raises his hands to his ears like he wants to block out the sound of Josh's voice, but then lets them drop limply at his sides.

"So many secrets," Josh continues, undeterred. He's onto something now and he won't let it go. "So many lies." He opens his hands, palms facing Drake. An act of supplication. "I thought we were brothers."

"Don't…" Drake whispers hoarsely. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"Then explain them to me," Josh demands. There's still an angry edge to his voice. "Tell me what happened. Because I can't take it anymore. The not knowing why…" He stops then, takes a breath. When he continues, his voice is soft. "…it's killing me."

Drake just looks at him. Finally. "You wanna know why?" he asks, his voice even, his eyes holding Josh's gaze unwaveringly.

"Yes." Josh feels the word emerge from his throat, but doesn't hear it. _So here we are at last._

"Because when I looked in the mirror, I hated who I saw staring back at me."

But that isn't the answer Josh wants to hear. It isn't really an answer at all.

Josh doesn't know what to say, just holds his brother's gaze for a few seconds longer before gathering up his stuff and heading for the shower. When he comes back from the bathroom twenty minutes later, the light is off and Drake's in bed and nothing, _nothing_, has changed.

* * *

Megan's picking at a soggy mass of corn flakes at the kitchen table when Drake strolls in, backpack slung over his shoulder. He doesn't say anything to her as he walks past the table to the refrigerator and reaches in for the milk. Tilting the carton to his lips, he takes a long swallow. When he lowers it, he sees her staring at him.

"Hey," he says nonchalantly, taking another drink.

She doesn't say anything, just watches him in silence with huge, dark eyes.

He puts the milk away, then turns to face her. When he sees her still staring at him, he asks a bit testily, "Do you need something?"

"Did you drink out of the chocolate milk carton before you…?" she blurts out, unable to finish the thought. She hasn't been able to let it go and she doesn't really know why. It's just that every time she opens the fridge, there it is, and she wonders all over again.

"Huh?"

"Never mind," she says quickly, looking down into her bowl, pressing the back of her spoon against the brown sludge that used to be cereal.

"I don't think so," he finally replies softly.

"It doesn't matter anyway," she mumbles, sliding the bowl off the table as she stands up, walking it over to the sink.

Drake watches her scrape the cereal into the garbage disposal then set the bowl in the sink. She pushes up her sleeves, then reaches to turn on the faucet.

A sharp intake of breath from Drake stops her movement. _Oh, no._ She reaches for her sleeve, but it's too late. He's seen it. She can hear the _thud_ of his backpack on the tile.

"Megan," he says as he tugs her roughly away from the sink. And he's on his knees in front of her, holding her left wrist tightly in his fingers. "What is this?" He's angry.

She looks at him, tears crowding in her eyes. "I…" she stammers.

Drake looks down at her arm, stares at the cut on her wrist. It's not very long, but it's long enough – maybe two inches. It's superficial and has already started to scab. It looks fairly recent.

"You said it didn't hurt," she whispers.

Drake closes his eyes, feels the pounding of his heart inside his skull, the incessant throbbing in his temples.

"You lied." The words are broken. She tries to pull her arm away, but Drake holds on.

Finally, he looks up at her, barely able to withstand the onslaught of pain in her eyes. "I said I didn't feel anything," he tells her carefully. "There's a difference."

They look at each other for a long moment. Drake can feel her trembling beneath his fingers and he loosens his grip, but she doesn't pull away.

"Please don't tell anyone," she begs him.

He opens his mouth to reply when Josh comes through the door. Megan jerks away from Drake, tugging at her sleeves. She turns to the sink to hide her face. Drake stands, facing Josh head-on.

"What's going on?" Josh asks suspiciously, looking back and forth quickly between his brother and sister.

"Nothing," Drake says, shrugging. "I was just helping Megan with her bracelet." And he looks directly into Josh's eyes, challenging him to question it.

With another glance at Megan, Josh then focuses his eyes on Drake's backpack. He stares at it for a long moment before looking back at Drake. "Don't tell me you're thinking about going to school," he says incredulously.

"Why not?" Drake asks. "It's Wednesday." Like it was any other Wednesday.

"You just got home," Josh replies, his voice a near-whisper. "You should rest."

Drake laughs. It's a forced sound that cuts into the air around them. "I've done nothing but lay in bed for two weeks," he says. "I think I'm rested." Of course, the hollow eyes and pale skin would beg to differ.

"But," Josh begins, but can't think of anything else to say.

"Unless you don't want to be seen with me," Drake quips, but his effort to keep the conversation light is fading fast.

"I'm just thinking of you," Josh replies softly. He takes in Drake's short-sleeved t-shirt, his eyes fluttering to Drake's hands and back up to his eyes. "Are you sure you want to wear that?"

"I can't hide forever, Josh." Drake's voice, for once, isn't hostile and the pointed look he gives his brother ends the discussion.

As they head out the door, Drake gently squeezes his sister's shoulder.

* * *

It's not much, she knows, as she sits at the dining room table and pulls it out of the bag, but she saw it slung over the shoulder of a mannequin in a store window and just had to get it. It's a surprise for Nathan – a new messenger bag to replace his old one. He's been out of sorts lately and she thought this might help cheer him up. This one isn't anything like his old one – it's blue instead of red, has a cushioned strap, and more pockets.

Claire awoke earlier than usual, leaving Nathan sound asleep in bed, so she could transfer all his stuff to his new bag and have it waiting for him when he left for school. The new one lay to her right, empty and waiting. The old one sits overstuffed and slouching on the table to her left. This is kind of exciting, she thinks. She loves surprises, even if they're not for her.

Unzipping the red bag, she pulls out his books – the teacher's edition of the history textbook he uses, his grade book, his calendar, a couple spiral notebooks – and places them in a stack in front of her. Holding open the blue bag, she slides the stack into the main cavity with satisfaction.

She empties the front pockets of his old bag, finding various items: his cell phone, a half-finished pack of gum, some melted starlight peppermints, a pocket calculator, a tube of Chapstick, a couple cough drops, and a flash drive. Sorting the usable stuff from the junk, she puts everything in its place, smiling at the thought of what he's going to say to her later, "You know, now I can't find anything." The cell phone goes in the little pouch on the side, the calculator goes into the bottom right pocket, the flash drive goes in the little pocket above that, the gum and Chapstick go into the upper left pocket. The mints and the cough drops go into the trash.

Moving to the inside pockets, she peeks inside the red bag. There are pens, pencils, and highlighters shoved two at a time and in no particular order into the slots and she gathers them up in her fist and drops them on the table. She tests each one in turn on the front page of yesterday's newspaper, discarding the ones near the end of their lives and grouping the rest into like groups. Finally, she takes them and slides them into the slots inside the new bag, happy with the way they're all organized, knowing they won't stay that way for long.

The last place to check is the inside pocket. Reaching inside the red bag, she pulls open the zipper. She slides her hand inside. It's a deep pocket and she's up past her wrist before her fingers touch something hard. At first she thinks it's another calculator, but when she pulls it out, she sees that it's a cell phone.

She's never seen it before and she's confused at first. But then the trembling starts as the possibilities for why he'd have a second cell phone play across her mind. She swallows against the sudden dryness in her mouth and stares down at the phone in her hand.

Terrible thoughts bombard her: He's been distant lately. He never wants to make love anymore. He has a really short temper. He seems distracted. When I ask him what's wrong, he doesn't want to talk about it. He's hiding something.

Not some_thing_, she realizes. Some_one_.

A heady mix of jealousy and anger propel her to turn the phone on, and she grips the phone so tightly as it's powering up that her fingertips feel cold. The screen is empty except for the battery symbol in the upper right-hand corner and the signal strength symbol in the upper left. Between the two is a little envelope that must mean there are messages in the inbox. She debates opening the inbox, but decides to look at the contacts list first. She needs to see _who_ it is that is stealing Nathan's loyalties away from her. That's if he was stupid enough to store her name in the phone.

When the contact list opens, there's only one name. And it's not even a name; it's just initials – DP.

DP. DP. DP.

Suddenly, she doesn't want to know any more. She exits out of the list and presses the POWER button, shutting it off, dropping it on the table like it's on fire.

She stares at it. DP. DP. DPDPDPDPDPDP.

Finally, she picks it up, her hand shaking, and goes to put it in the new bag. But then she stops. _No_, she thinks and slides it back into the deep inside pocket of the old bag, re-zips the pocket, and folds the nearly-empty bag in half.

Standing, she lifts the new bag, zips the top, and places it neatly in the chair where Nathan always leaves his bag. She then places the old bag on the table neatly in front of it. Backing away, she stares at them both again before she manages to tear her eyes away and walk back towards the bedroom.

He's still sleeping, lying on his right side, the blankets pulled up to his shoulder. She watches as his body rises and falls slightly with each breath, studies the way his blond hair flops onto the pillow. She loves him. She can't help it.

But he doesn't love her. The realization strikes her suddenly, like a dagger through the heart. He doesn't love her and she wonders if he ever did.

She finally manages to go back to sleep, curled up along the edge of the bed as far away from him as she can get. When she wakes up again, he's gone. And when she checks, so is the phone from the red bag, which lies empty and mocking on the dining room table.

* * *

_Only a few chapters left!_

_As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you._


	18. Fall from Grace

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N 1:_** I think a little clarification is needed. I have had several comments regarding Megan's "cutting episode" in the last chapter. Yes, she cut herself; no, she's not "cutting." She did it to try to understand her brother's actions. That's all. It's not a chronic condition.

**_A/N 2:_** In case any of you are from Baudette, MN or know someone from there or have been there - please forgive me for making the town sound less than ideal. I have never been there and all I know about it is what I read about it via my minimal research on the Internet. I'm sure it's a lovely town. I just took a little "artistic license."

* * *

**WARNING: This is it, folks. The big BAD GUY MOMENT. I've written it, re-written it, and re-re-written it to make it  
****come across the way I want without being too offensive or explicit. It's the first section, so read at your own discretion.**

_Chapter 18: Fall from Grace_

"_What do you want from me?" Drake asked softly, staring across the sea of empty desks to the front of the room where Mr. Bradford sat behind his own desk, watching him. He had shuffled into the empty classroom after the last bell, heavy-hearted and apprehensive, and had bypassed his usual seat in the front for a seat in the back, away from the teacher. Looking at the situation now, he wished he had stayed in the front, closer to the door. But so far, Mr. Bradford hadn't moved. They'd been sitting in silence for the last ten minutes until Drake broke it with his question – a question that now hung heavily in the air between them._

_Mr. Bradford stood up then, walking to the door and closing it softly. It made a soft whooshing sound as it closed and Drake got the feeling that he was being sealed in. The teacher stood looking through the narrow window into the empty hallway for a moment and Drake heard him take in a deep breath, saw his shoulders rise with it, then heard the slow exhalation._

_Turning from the door, Mr. Bradford walked to his desk and perched his backside along the edge of it, crossing his arms over his chest and looking evenly back at Drake. His words, when he finally spoke, had nothing to do with Drake's question. "I grew up in Minnesota," he said softly, "in a town called Baudette near the Canadian border. It's a very small place. When I lived there, the population was less than a thousand. There wasn't anything to do and the winters seemed to last forever. Everything was frozen and desolate, with nothing around for miles." He sighed. "I hated it there. I hated the _smallness_ of it, the way everyone seemed to know everyone else. You couldn't be anonymous."_

_Drake just looked at him, listening in silence, wondering what the point was._

"_I went to Lake of the Woods Elementary then Lake of the Woods Secondary School. I graduated from high school with the exact same kids I went to kindergarten with. My dad was a truck driver, hauling freight for a company based in North Dakota. He would be gone for weeks at a time only to come home for a couple days and then leave again on another run. I barely saw him my entire childhood. My mom was a nurse at the Lakewood Health Center on South Main Street. Sometimes she worked the night shift, leaving me home alone a lot. I learned to rely on myself for a lot of things." He stopped, looking at Drake to make sure he was still listening._

_After a moment, he continued. "I never really fit in there. I always wanted something more. The other boys, they all seemed content to marry local girls, have kids, and work in the same jobs their fathers had. But I wanted something else. I used to sit at home, alone in my room, and dream about the things I'd do when I grew up. First on my list was getting out of that place."_

_His eyes flitted to the window high on the south wall and Drake saw the faraway expression in them. Mr. Bradford stared so long that Drake opened his mouth to speak. But then the teacher turned his eyes back to Drake._

"_I left home when I was eighteen to go to the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. It was like a completely different world. I couldn't believe that Baudette was even in the same state. It was like I had stepped out of an episode of _Andy Griffith_ and into an episode of _Miami Vice._ It was exciting and alive and I realized I didn't have to be Nathan, son of George and Bernice, from Baudette. I could be anyone I wanted to be." He looked pointedly at Drake. "Do you know what that's like, Drake? To want to be someone else?" Then, before Drake could respond, he answered his own question. "No, I don't suppose you do. You've always gotten everything you ever wanted." The words carried a hint of bitterness that he couldn't disguise._

"_Not everything," Drake muttered._

_But either Mr. Bradford didn't hear him or he chose to ignore it. "I learned a lot about myself in college. I learned that I was smart. You see, you never get the opportunity to discover how smart you are in a place like Baudette. Everything there is just a different shade of gray. Everyone is just walking through life at different levels of mediocrity. But in college I learned that there are other ways of thinking. That there are other ways of living. It opened my eyes."_

_He straightened and took a step forward. Drake thought for a minute that he was going to come and sit next to him. But he didn't; instead, he walked back around his desk and sat down. He gathered a few papers and stacked them neatly and Drake could see his hands shaking a little. Pressing his palms flat against the desk, he went on. "Do you know why I became a teacher, Drake?"_

_Drake just shook his head._

"_Because of a scholarship. A full scholarship to the state university of my choice in exchange for becoming a teacher for two years at a tribal school on the Leech Lake Reservation. Ojibwe Indians. I never thought about being a teacher, you know. When I was little, I wanted to be the usual things – doctor, fireman, astronaut, policeman. But I was so desperate to get out of Baudette that I was willing to do anything. So I applied. And I got it." He smiled. "I guess no one else was willing to give up two years of their life teaching a bunch of Indian kids how to read and write."_

"_Why are you telling me this?" Drake finally asked, his eyes involuntarily darting to the clock._

"_Because," Mr. Bradford said with sudden vehemence, then closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were full of a strange mix of sadness and regret. "Because," he continued, his voice softer, "I just want you to understand."_

_Drake swallowed down a growing sense of dread. "Understand what?"_

_Mr. Bradford looked at him, his blue eyes unblinking. "Me," he said. "I want you to understand who I am."_

I think I have a pretty good idea, _Drake thought and bit his tongue to keep from saying it out loud. Instead, after a moment of Mr. Bradford staring intently back at him, he said, "Is that all you want? Someone to understand you?"_

_Mr. Bradford let the question sink in. "I want a lot of things, Drake."_

"_Why me?" And there it was – the one question that had been eating away at Drake's mind since Friday night. Since before that, really, if he were honest with himself._

_A small smile played at the corners of Mr. Bradford's mouth. "Because you and I," he said softly, "are a lot alike."_

_Drake didn't find any similarities between them at all. Well, except for the fact that they both liked Eric Clapton. But so did Walter. And Craig (or was it Eric?). The point was that similar taste in music did not make them soul mates. But he didn't say any of this._

"_We're both smarter than anyone ever gave us credit for," Mr. Bradford continued. "We both want bigger things out of life." He smiled. "I've seen you play, you know. In the park. My fiancé and I went to see you." His smile widened when he saw Drake's eyebrows raise. "You're good."_

"_Th-Thanks." Drake felt off-balance._

"_Her name's Claire," Mr. Bradford said after a moment. "Claire Hanover."_

_Drake didn't respond._

"_She's very beautiful," he continued. "Long brown hair. Blue eyes. Great body." He smiled again. "If she were about fifteen years younger, she'd be the kind of girl you'd like." He chuckled._

_Shifting in his seat, Drake's sneakers squeaked against the floor._

"_She loves me," Mr. Bradford explained. "But she shouldn't."_

"_Why not?" The question fell from Drake's lips before he even thought about it._

"_Because I don't love _her._"_

"_Why?" Drake countered, finding a hidden cache of courage deep inside. "Because she doesn't _understand _you?"_

_Something dark flashed in the man's eyes then and Drake pressed his lips together nervously, eyes flitting to the door and back. But all the teacher did was smile again. "No," he said, "she doesn't."_

"_Then don't marry her," Drake said. The talking was helping to keep the growing sense of dread from closing in around him. "There are plenty of women out there."_

_But Mr. Bradford didn't respond to this, said instead, "You understand me, though, don't you." It wasn't a question and the look he gave Drake made the boy go cold._

_Drake grabbed his backpack and slid out of his desk quickly, the metal feet scraping along the hard floor with a harsh sound. "Look, Mr. Bradford," he said quickly, forcing the sound through his vocal cords. "I really need to get going, okay? Really." And he walked quickly up the aisle towards the door._

_But the teacher beat him to it, stood in front of it like a sentry. "What is it this time? You have to pick your sister up from oboe practice? No, wait, you used that one already." His demeanor had quickly changed into something less affable, something more menacing. "Maybe you have to go feed the homeless," he said bitterly. "Or read to the blind."_

"_Look, I –"_

"_What's your hurry? We were just talking." The teacher leaned against the door, crossed his arms over his chest._

"_I don't want to talk anymore," Drake replied softly, his pulse throbbing in his temples. He curled his hands into fists to stop them from shaking._

"_What _do_ you want?" Mr. Bradford asked calmly._

_Drake looked right at him. "I want you to leave me alone."_

_Mr. Bradford shook his head once, a gesture that made Drake's breath catch in his throat. "I can't do that," the man said._

"_Sure you can," Drake tried, fighting to keep the note of desperation out of his voice. _I can still get out of this,_ he thought to himself._ Just keep talking._ "All you have to do is let me walk out that door."_

"_It's too late for that," Mr. Bradford said, shaking his head again. His eyes held a desperate look as he looked at Drake. Like a cornered animal. "Too late."_

"_No," Drake said, holding out one hand placatingly. "No, it's not. It's easy. Just open the door."_

"_Too much," the teacher whispered, "too much has happened already."_

"_Nothing's happened, Mr. – Nathan," Drake said, correcting himself, hoping the name change would calm the man in front of him. He ignored the memories of Friday night flashing across his mind. "Nothing that can't be forgotten."_

"_Drake…" The name was like a painful confession on Nathan's lips._

"_Please," Drake replied, walking towards him, his hand still out in front of him. "Please just open the door."_

_Nathan watched him approach, opened his mouth to say something but shut it without making a sound. Slowly, he shifted, reaching a trembling hand to the doorknob._

_A wave of relief so strong washed over Drake that he felt light-headed and a small smile arced across his mouth. "Thank you," he whispered as he reached the door._

_A split second later, he found himself yanked so hard by the left arm that his backpack slipped from his right and landed with a dull _thud_ on the floor. Just like Friday night, he found himself pinned between Nathan and a wall, the breath knocked loose from his lungs. The fleeting thought,_ I'm so stupid. So, so stupid _flashed across his mind before the sound of Nathan's voice drowned out everything else._

"_Do you think I'm stupid? Huh?" Nathan hissed, his breath hot against Drake's ear. He punctuated the last word with a thrust of his hips._

"_No." The word was strangled, barely audible._

"_Do you think I don't learn from my mistakes?" Nathan continued. He was pressed so closely against Drake that Drake could feel the man's heartbeat against his chest, mixed wildly with his own._

"_I-I'm sorry."_

_But Nathan just continued like he hadn't heard it. "I let you go, you go running your mouth." He pulled back, locked gazes with Drake. His eyes were cold, like the eyes of a snake._

"_I won't. I swear," Drake assured him, shaking his head. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs._

"_That's what Bobby said, too," Nathan stated viciously, grimacing like the words tasted bitter on his tongue. "But he was a liar," he added, spittle flying from his lips. "Just like you." He thrust his hips hard against Drake again and Drake felt the man's arousal. "Another prettyboy liar."_

"_I p-promise," Drake managed, starting to feel faint._

"_Promises," Nathan said, touching his forehead to Drake's. His breath smelled faintly of peppermints and the sharp mixture of sweat and cologne that Drake remembered from the alley was even stronger. "Promises don't mean anything," he whispered. "They're just lies by another name."_

"_Please," Drake pleaded and squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears stinging his eyes._

_But Nathan was unmoved. "At least this time, I'm going to get what I want before I let you go," he whispered, grabbing Drake's shirt in his fists and throwing him down to the floor._

_Reaching instinctively in front of him to break his fall, Drake's right wrist twisted painfully underneath him as he hit the hard floor, the side of his head banging against the linoleum_._ Crying out in pain, his head spinning, he laid on his side, holding his wrist in his left hand, knees drawn up slightly in a pseudo-fetal position. He had bitten his tongue and he tasted blood, warm and metallic, in his mouth. He struggled to pull air into his lungs._

_The lights went off and for several seconds the room seemed very dark. But then the light filtering in from the hallway and from the afternoon sunshine outside cast the room in a gray gauze that made everything seem surreal. Like a dream. Like a nightmare. _

_Nathan was on top of him suddenly, straddling his body, one knee on either side squeezing, the man's weight pressing heavily down on his hip. He could feel the man's hands – one grasping his own hands, fingers digging into his quickly-swelling wrist, the other in his hair, grabbing it in a handful and jerking back his head._

"_I didn't want it to be like this," Nathan whispered as he pressed his lips to Drake's ear. "But you…" Drake felt him shake his head, the tip of the man's nose brushing lightly back and forth through the hair above his ear. "You gave me no choice." He rested his forehead against Drake's left temple and Drake could feel the puffs of warm breath against his cheek._

"_Please," Drake whispered, the word carried out on a sob that stole the last of his breath. His lungs burned in his chest and he closed his eyes._

_Nathan lifted his head and pressed his lips to Drake's temple, letting them linger there for several seconds. Drake's throat burned with a rise of bile, bitter on the back of his tongue. "I'm sorry," Nathan whispered brokenly, then slammed Drake's head against the floor again._

_Blackness crept in around the edges of Drake's vision and he felt himself being moved, flipped onto his stomach. He blinked, but the movement was slow, like his brain wasn't working right. He heard a faint metallic _clang_ from somewhere behind him, realized too late that it was the sound of a belt being undone. Realized even later that it was _his_ belt. Not that it mattered anyway; nothing mattered anymore._

_He separated from himself then, focused on little things that didn't hurt. The smoothness of the linoleum beneath his cheek. The pen laying on the floor a few feet away. The sensation of a tear creeping across the bridge of his nose and down, falling unimpeded to the floor. The number of desks in the row closest to him (five). He tried to remember how many rows there were total, thought there were five. That would be five desks per row times five rows, twenty-five desks in all. _And Josh thinks I don't know how to multiply.

_A persistent buzzing noise permeated his consciousness and he focused his attention on it. It was coming from his hip pocket, which was now down somewhere near his knees. Someone was calling him._

_And then a strange thought filtered into his muddled brain: _At least it isn't Ginger.

* * *

"_Hi, Drake," the message began, her voice shy. "This is Maddie. Remember me? The girl from detention." There was a pause. "Well, um, I just wanted to call and say hi. So, 'Hi.' Call me back. If you want." Another pause. "Bye."_

_He was listening to it as he huddled against the back corner of the last bathroom stall in the restroom, the phone pressed hard against his ear, like if it was close enough, the sound could drown out everything else. He was scrunched between the toilet and the side of the stall, knees drawn up. He felt pain in places he didn't want to think about. He had no idea how long he'd been in there._

_He had already emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet, had knelt retching into the bowl long after there was nothing left. But the shaking hadn't stopped yet and that's what he was waiting for. It was chronic and debilitating, settling in his bones and radiating outward._

_His phone had buzzed again, loud in the small space of the stall, reminding him that he had a message. So to distract himself from the shaking, he had dug it out of his pocket and flipped it open. It had taken him three tries to get his trembling thumb to press the right buttons._

_He played the message again; the sound of her voice was like a point of light in an otherwise dark sky and he focused on it – its pitch, its tone, the hesitance behind it. He held the phone in his left hand, had his right arm folded tightly across his chest, his fingers tucked in his armpit. The pain in his right wrist radiated up his arm, but it had long been relegated to a dull ache._

_Not remembering her number and not having stored it in his phone yet, he flipped through his recent calls list and found her number at the top. Selecting it, he pressed the CALL button, then pressed the phone once again to his ear, praying that she'd answer. He needed, suddenly, to hear her voice._

_After three rings he heard, "Hello?" She sounded out of breath._

_Drake closed his eyes, almost crying at the relief that flooded through him at the sound of her voice. She was neutral; she didn't yet know all the bad things about him – like the fact that he could lie as easily as he could change his socks. Or that he was selfish. Or that he was a coward._

"_Hey," he said, his voice sounding hollow in his ears._

_There was a pause on the other end as she tried to determine who it was._

"_It's Drake," he offered._

"_Oh, hi!" She sounded like she was smiling._

"_I got your message," he said. "I'm sorry I missed your call."_

"_Detention again?" she asked jokingly and Drake swallowed hard._

"_Something like that," he muttered._

"_Are you alright?" she asked quietly. "You sound…funny."_

_Drake clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. "I'm fine," he replied tightly. "I'm inside the restroom."_

_There was a brief pause before he heard her say, a little unsure, "You're calling me from the restroom?"_

"_I know that's weird," he explained, trying to sound light but failing, "but I needed to hear your voice."_

_She laughed a little uneasily. "Uh…thanks. I guess."_

_There was a long, silent moment, light static crackling in the background._

"_Drake?" she finally asked tentatively into the silence. "You still there?"_

"_I don't want to scare you away," he said finally. The shaking was starting to subside._

"_You won't," she replied softly. She sighed. "Drake…"_

_The restroom door opened and Drake snapped his head up, his eyes boring holes through the stall door. His fingers tightened around the phone and he whispered harshly, "I've gotta go." Then he flipped the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket._

_He heard footsteps on the tile coming closer and he held his breath, his heart beating wildly in his chest. But when he saw that the feet peeking out from beneath the stall door belonged to a woman, he let out his breath. The woman knocked on the door._

"_Everything alright in there?"_

_Drake picked up his backpack and struggled to his feet, sliding back the door lock. "Yeah," he said, pulling open the door and looking at her._

_The woman was Mrs. Van Doren, the tenth grade assistant principal. Her eyebrows climbed towards her hairline at the sight of him. "Drake Parker," she said a bit suspiciously, remembering him well from tenth grade. "What on Earth are you doing in here?"_

_Usually he would say something snarky or sarcastic, but he didn't have the energy. "I wasn't feeling well," he said._

_She studied him for a moment, then said, "You _are_ aware that this is the girls' restroom, aren't you?"_

"_N-No, ma'am," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't look. It was kinda urgent."_

"_Well," she said, tilting her head slightly, "I hope you're feeling better."_

Actually, I feel like I could throw up on your shoes. _"Yes, ma'am."_

"_Good." She stepped back from the stall. "I was just checking the restrooms for stragglers. We don't want anyone trapped in the school, setting off the alarm, you know."_

_Drake didn't respond, just pushed past her towards the sinks. He felt her eyes on him as he turned on the faucet and cupped his hands under the water, bending to draw some into his mouth. He swished it around, then spit it out; it had a faint pink tinge. Turning off the water, he reached for a paper towel, wiping his hands on it then dragging it across his mouth. _

_He stared at himself in the mirror. No visible scars. Shiny veneer over rotting wood._

"_Ready?" he heard her ask from behind him and he flinched at the sound._

"_Yeah," he muttered, tearing his eyes away from his reflection and dropping the paper towel in the trash._

_She followed him out of the restroom, then said to him, "If you wouldn't mind waiting, I'll just grab my things and you can walk me to my car." She smiled and he wished that he could return the gesture. But he couldn't get his mouth to work._

"_Sure."_

"_Great," she replied as they started walking towards the main entrance. They walked in silence for a moment, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the empty hallway – her heels clicking loudly, his sneakers squeaking softly. Their route took them past Mr. Bradford's classroom and he involuntarily moved to Mrs. Van Doren's left side, away from the door. He cast a look at it out of the corner of his eye; he could see through the window that the light was still off._

_Like it was just any other room._

"_The cleaning service doesn't work on Tuesday nights," Mrs. Van Doren was saying, making conversation. "They only come on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The school board's way of saving money, I suppose." She shrugged. "So that's why whoever's here has to make sure the buildings are secure. Usually it's one of us" – meaning the administrators – "but sometimes it's a teacher." _

"_Uh-huh," Drake said, not really listening._

_They reached the front office. "I'll just be a moment," she said, disappearing into the front office._

_Drake waited anxiously, his dark eyes darting around the empty hallway. He shifted his feet nervously and was ardently chewing on his left thumbnail when Mrs. Van Doren emerged through the glass door, a leather briefcase slung over her shoulder and a coat across her arm. "Let's go."_

_He followed her out, waiting as she dug out her keys and locked the heavy front doors. It was late afternoon; the long shadows of the trees lining the front drive touched the edge of the sidewalk. "I'm just over here," she said to him, pointing to the parking lot near the front of the school._

_They walked in silence to her car, a blue Toyota Prius. Usually he would've said something like, "Nice car. My sister gets more horsepower from her bike." And she was looking at him like she expected it. But he didn't say anything._

"_Thank you for walking with me," she said, looking at him over the roof of the car. She was standing on the passenger's side and pulled open the door, placing her things on the seat._

"_No problem," he responded. He turned to go._

"_Wait," she said._

_Drake turned around. She was still looking at him, had her right hand resting on the edge of the door, her left hand on the roof. "How are you doing?" she asked. "In school, I mean. Classes going alright?" She smiled self-deprecatingly. "I don't get to keep up with my former students as much as I'd like to."_

_He felt his throat tighten. A thousand things to say ran through his mind in a second, but he settled on one that he knew would make her happy. The one that he could actually manage to say. "I'm getting an A in History." He felt something crack deep inside him at the words. The feeling surprised him, actually; he had been certain there was nothing left to break._

_Her smile widened. "Really?"_

_He just nodded._

"_That's great, Drake. Really great." She nodded. "Congratulations." And she meant it._

"_Thanks," he said through the lump in his throat._

_She closed the car door with a soft _thud._ "Do you need a ride home?"_

_The question tore at Drake and he stood perfectly still, remembering another time when someone else had asked him the same thing. If only he hadn't gone with him, maybe…_

_But it was too late for that. Much too late._

"_No, thank you," he politely demurred. "I'd rather walk."_

_She held his eyes for a moment longer, then said, "Well, be careful." She paused. "Goodnight."_

"_Goodnight." He watched he get into her car and close the door, watched her buckle up, heard the soft purr of the hybrid engine as she turned the car on. She pulled out carefully and waved to him through the window as she drove past._

_He didn't wave back. He didn't have the strength._

* * *

_Nathan ran around the park once – his usual routine. Then he ran around it again. He tried for a third time, but a quarter of the way around, the burning in his lungs and the sharp stitch in his side made him stop and he stood on shaky legs panting, leaning against a tree with one hand, bent over at the waist. A grimace of pain twisted his face._

_It wasn't working. No matter how hard he ran, he couldn't get it out of his head. The feel of the boy against his hands. The sight of him lying on the floor beneath him. The sharp _zing_ of his own zipper. The boy's involuntary cry of pain muffled against the floor._

_Sickness bubbled up suddenly and he vomited in the grass at the base of the tree, his eyes watering. Slowly, he drew the back of his hand across his mouth and took a deep breath. He got sick again, retching violently, and he knelt down, resting on the balls of his feet, steadying himself against the tree. He focused on breathing, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth._

_He didn't hear the person approach him and nearly jumped out of his skin at the feel of a hand on his shoulder. Snapping his head up, he looked into the face of an older man, who stared back at him with concern._

"_You alright?"_

_Nathan had to actually think about his answer before he said weakly, "Yeah. Just overdid it." And he tried to smile lopsidedly, but it didn't feel right._

_The man was dressed in red nylon running shorts and a sleeveless white t-shirt that was nearly translucent with sweat. "You've got to be careful, you know. If you push too hard, your body starts to push back." He smiled. "Believe me, I know."_

_Nathan nodded, inhaling deeply. "I just lost track of myself." He pointed to his head. "Thinking too much." He tried standing, but lost his balance._

_The man held a hand out to him. "Running is supposed to clear your head, son. Not garble it." He chuckled._

_Grabbing the man's hand, Nathan used it as leverage to pull himself up. "Yeah, I know," he agreed, feeling his pulse finally start to slow. "I've just got a lot of…things going on." He gestured abstractly around his head._

_The man looked at him, a funny half-smile on his lips. He stuck his hand out again, this time in introduction. "Tom," he said._

_Nathan took his hand, noticed that his palm was warm and dry against his own damp one. "Nathan," he replied in turn._

"_Well, Nathan," Tom said, "let me give you a word of advice." His voice carried a conspiratorial note. "I've lived a lot of years and during those years, I've had my share of…'things going on'," he continued, using Nathan's euphemism. "But I've never come across anything that can't be outrun." He winked. "Eventually."_

_Nodding, Nathan simply said, "Yeah. Thanks."_

_Tom laughed. "I know. Shut up, Tom. Don't worry, I hear that a lot. I'm used to it." He pointed his index finger at Nathan. "Take it easy, okay?"_

"_I will." And as Nathan watched the man jog away, he thought to himself, _If only it were that simple.

* * *

_When Drake got home, the house was empty. There was a note in the kitchen from his mom – she and Walter had a dinner engagement with Walter's boss and wouldn't be home until ten. Megan was over at Janie's house working on their science project and Janie's mom would drop her back at home by 8:30. Josh, of course, was at work._

_He dropped the note on the counter and stood at the sink, looking out the small window through the row of potted herbs Audrey kept on the sill. To his right he could see the Hamiltons' front yard. Eight-year-old Davey Hamilton was trying to play catch with his little sister, Lindsay, who was four. This consisted of him throwing the ball to her and watching as she let it fall to the ground at her feet, then walking over, picking it up, and trying again. It didn't look like much fun, but Davey seemed determined. Drake admired him for it. He watched them until they both looked up towards the house, then ran inside it; presumably, their mother had called them in for dinner._

_Turning on the faucet, he washed his hands, bent to splash some water on his face, then let his head hover over the sink as the water ran. He still felt like he was going to be sick. The steam from the hot tap rose around his face and he felt his stomach tighten, but nothing came up. Finally, after another minute, the wave subsided and he stood, turning off the water. He tore off a handful of paper towels from the roll next to the sink and wiped his hands and face, tossing them in the trash._

_The house was so quiet, he noticed, as he dragged himself up the stairs one labored step at a time, grasping the handrail tightly in his left hand. It was eerie. He was rarely home by himself; he got bored too easily, always had to be _doing_ something. But now he welcomed the quiet, welcomed the stillness. He needed time to gather the fragments of his life and piece them back together into something recognizable. He couldn't do it with everyone around, staring at him. Because they'd know, _know,_ just by looking at him, that something was wrong. And they couldn't know. Not ever._

_He just needed time to build a whole person from the shards that were left. _

_Something convincing enough to fool them._

* * *

"_Dude, you will _not_ believe my day!" Josh exclaimed when he burst through their bedroom door nearly three hours later._

_Drake was curled up on the couch in his pajamas, watching a show on The Science Channel about how crayons were made. It was the channel that was on when he turned on the television and he had just left it._

"_Crazy Steve and Gavin got into an argument about _Dora the Explorer_," Josh continued. Drake could hear him moving around behind him, probably taking off his work clothes._

_Drake didn't respond, just watched in silence as the melted wax was poured into the crayon molds, listened impassively as the narrator explained that over 30,000 crayons were processed an hour._

"_Gavin made the comment that his favorite educational cartoon was _The Magic School Bus_. Said he liked the idea of a magic school bus that could take you any place you wanted. Said he'd like to drive a magic school bus." Josh snorted. "I don't even remember how we got on the topic."_

_The freshly-made crayons were rolled out onto a conveyor belt that transported them to a machine where the labels were then applied. Drake's eyes followed the methodical movement of the machine as each crayon was picked up and had glue applied, then was dropped onto a waiting label, where another mechanical doohickey rolled the label around the crayon. It was all so very precise._

"_Anyway, Crazy Steve started screaming about how _The Magic School Bus_ was stupid since there was no such thing as a magic school bus and that _Dora the Explorer_ was better because at least there _were_ actual explorers." Josh laughed. "And you know what Gavin said?" But he was so into the story, that he didn't wait for Drake to respond. "He said, 'Yeah, but I bet Dora can't drive a magic school bus.'" He laughed again. "Crazy Steve was so mad that it took three rounds of 'She's Coming 'Round the Mountain' and an entire quart of milk to calm him down."_

_The crayons were then sorted by color and placed by workers into hoppers which were then programmed to drop a specific number of crayons into a tray based on what size package was being processed. The biggest sellers, apparently, were the 16- and 24-piece boxes._

_Drake had loved crayons as a kid; he always found their smell comforting. Yellow-Orange and Periwinkle had been his favorite colors._

"_Dude, are you listening to me?" Josh asked him as he sunk into the cushions next to Drake on the couch. Drake involuntarily moved over a couple inches, pressing against the couch's arm._

"_Something about Gavin driving a school bus," Drake muttered, not looking at his brother. His head was throbbing and he really didn't want to talk._

_Josh sighed, exasperated. "As usual, you missed the whole point."_

"_I'm watching this," Drake replied, gesturing to the TV._

_Looking at the television, Josh's eyes widened. "Ooh! I've seen this one," he said excitedly. They watched together in silence._

_Sometimes the hoppers got jammed and the line would have to be stopped until the jam was cleared. Then the crayons were boxed and the boxes weighed to make sure they held the correct number of crayons. If they were missing one, the box was ejected automatically from the conveyor, filled by hand, then placed back on the conveyor for packing._

_When the program went to commercial, Josh spoke again. "The next segment's about wooden kayaks. There's one on push lawnmowers, too."_

"_Great," Drake said, still staring at the screen._

_Another moment passed. "I can't believe you're watching The Science Channel," Josh said._

"_The Fruit and Vegetable Channel was nothing but reruns," Drake replied dryly._

_Josh smirked, then snapped his fingers suddenly. "That reminds me," he said, standing up. He was gone a few seconds, then plopped down on the couch again, holding a bag out to Drake._

_Drake finally looked over at him, eyeing the bag carefully. "What is it?"_

"_Open it and find out," Josh said is a sing-song voice, wiggling the bag and grinning._

_Reaching for the bag, Drake set it on his lap and unrolled the top, the rough paper crackling beneath his fingers. Peering inside, his stomach somersaulted at what he saw. It was a Yo-Yo: two huge chocolate chip cookies with butter cream in between them, dipped in chocolate._

"_I had them put chocolate butter cream in it for you," Josh was saying beside him._

"_Thanks," Drake managed to say. He blinked back the sting of sudden tears._

"_Go on," Josh urged, "take a bite." He waggled his eyebrows. "You know you want to."_

_He didn't, really. The _last_ thing he wanted was food. But Josh had gone out of his way and he was looking so expectant, that he didn't want to disappoint him. He reached inside and pulled out the confection, held it to his lips._

Take a bite. Chew. Swallow, _he told himself. _Take a bite. Chew. Swallow.

_Josh smiled, then turned his attention back to the television. They _were_ talking about how wooden kayaks were made, Drake noticed. It was remarkable how Josh's memory worked._

_Drake watched his brother watching television, methodically eating the Yo-Yo until it was gone, not even tasting it. Josh was entranced, and Drake could tell that he was absorbing the knowledge through those light brown eyes of his, storing it away in case he needed it someday._

_Josh was his best friend. The thought suddenly popped into his head. He'd always known it, but he'd never really thought about it before. Not really. It was always just one of those things that _was_, like the sun rising or Megan being an evil little girl._

"_Josh," Drake said suddenly, feeling his throat tighten._

"_Huh?" Josh asked absently, still looking at the television._

"_I…" Drake continued, swallowing hard. He could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. _I need to tell you something. _"I need…" But he couldn't say the rest._

_The TV went to commercial again and Josh turned to look at Drake. "Did you say something?"_

_Drake looked back at him, at his guileless face and expressive eyes, his I-wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve-for-the-world-to-stomp-on expression and shook his head. "Never mind," he said softly, trying to sound nonchalant._

_Josh's brows creased slightly, but then he shrugged, pointing to the TV. "I think this is a marathon," he said. "You wanna watch the rest of it?"_

"_Sure," Drake said, disinterested, turning his eyes back to the TV._

"_Great," Josh replied, doing a terrible job of masking the enthusiasm in his voice. "But first," he continued, standing up, "I'm gonna go take a shower." A few seconds later, Drake heard him at the door. _

"_Be back in a bit," he heard Josh say. _

"_Yeah," Drake whispered. "See ya."_

_Two minutes later, Drake was hunched over the toilet in his parents' bathroom, relieving his stomach of the burden of having to digest the Yo-Yo he'd eaten. He dry-heaved, his stomach convulsing, for several more minutes as tears burned his eyes. He cried into the bowl, the sound bouncing against the cold ceramic, his vision swimming before him, and gripped the rim tightly in his hands. _

_But by the time Josh emerged from the shower, wearing damp hair and gray flannel sleep pants, Drake was sitting back on the couch in the same spot he had been in when Josh left._

_Like nothing had happened._

* * *

"_Hello?" Maddie's voice sounded hoarse and Drake knew he'd awakened her._

"_Hi," he replied softly. He had crept out of his room about forty-five minutes ago and was currently sitting in a cushy patio chair on the back deck. It was nearing the end of February – it would be March in four days – and it was a balmy night._

_There was a pause on the other end. "Drake?"_

"_Yeah," he said, adding quickly, "I know it's late."_

"_That's okay," she said. "I hadn't been asleep long."_

"_I just wanted to apologize for hanging up on you earlier."_

_He could almost hear her smile. "Bathroom emergency?"_

_He smiled slightly despite himself. "Sort of."_

_She didn't speak for a long moment and Drake could hear her yawn. He knew he should let her get back to sleep, but he couldn't. Not yet._

"_Can't sleep?" she finally asked._

"_No."_

"_Me, neither," she quipped. "Apparently." And she laughed._

_Drake clung to the sound like a life preserver, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered._

"_I'm just kidding," she replied. Her voice was clear now; the remnants of sleep were gone._

"_Talk to me," he blurted into the silence that followed._

_She laughed again, the sound a little unsure. "About what?"_

"_Anything."_

"_Drake…"_

"_Talk to me about what you did today. About your favorite foods. Talk to me about _Huck Finn.

"Huck Finn_?" she asked, surprised._

"_Yeah," he said, reaching. He just needed her to keep talking, needed her voice to drown out the rest of it. "Tell me why you hated it so much."_

"_You can't be serious."_

"_I mean it. I really want to know."_

"_But…" she began and he could hear her breathe. He pictured her in bed with big, fluffy pillows all around her, warm and safe and protected. He didn't know why he needed this so much, needed _her_. All he knew was that she was a lighthouse on a choppy sea and he needed her to guide him back to shore._

"_Please," he said. "Just talk. About anything. I don't care."_

"_Okay." The word was a whisper. _

_After a moment, she started to talk. She told him why she hated _Huck Finn_ and how she liked to write poems. She told him that her favorite color was red and that she took five years of piano lessons when she was a kid and even now could barely play "Chopsticks." She told him that her dad was a lawyer and that her mom trained seeing-eye dogs and that she had an older brother who was studying marine biology at USC. She told him that she liked reading British murder mysteries and that her dream was to one day hike across the United Kingdom. She told him that she'd always been chronically shy and that she didn't make friends easily._

"_I don't believe that," he told her._

"_It's true," she replied softly. "I don't have a lot of friends."_

"_Yeah, but it must be tough having to go to a new school your senior year."_

_She laughed. "Drake, I've been at Belleview since 9__th__ grade."_

"_Really?" he asked, incredulous._

"_Really." She laughed again. "You just never noticed me." A beat. "But I noticed you," she added softly._

"_Everyone notices me," he said without thinking, then felt himself flush. "Wait…"_

"_It's okay," she said lightly. "You're right; they do."_

"_That's not always a good thing, you know," he replied, closing his eyes. _

_There was a pause. "I never thought it was." She sighed. "I think it would be hard having everyone know you."_

"_It can be," he said wearily._

"_Everyone expecting you to be a certain way. I'll bet it gets tiring." Her voice was so soft, so soothing through the phone._

_Drake couldn't respond; his throat was too tight._

"_Drake?" she asked tentatively when he didn't speak._

"_I'm here," he said roughly, clearing his throat._

"_Oh," she replied. "For a second there, I thought we got disconnected."_

"_Thank you," he said suddenly._

"_For what?"_

"_For this," he said. "For talking to me."_

"_You're welcome," she answered. Then she said, "I just want you to know that I don't expect anything from you."_

_He blinked back tears at that, pressing the meaty part of his right hand against each eye, grimacing at the pain in his wrist. The swelling had gone down, but it was still tender. They'd been talking so long, the little phone felt hot against Drake's ear. "Can I call you again?" he managed._

"_Anytime," she replied._

"_Okay," he whispered. He paused, holding her on the line for a few seconds longer. "Goodnight, Maddie."_

"_Goodnight, Drake," she said. "Sweet dreams."_

_He'd prefer to not have _any.

* * *

This one made ME nervous. I've bitten all my fingernails down to nubs!

Please let me know what you think by reviewing. Thank you!


	19. Unspeakable

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** I think I got a little carried away with this chapter; it's even longer than the last one! Each chapter seems to get longer and longer. But sometimes, I get to writing and I can't seem to stop! Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 19: Unspeakable

There is none of the usual banter. There's no fighting over the radio or discussion about evening plans or checking reflections in the vanity mirrors behind the visors. There's only silence, thick and heavy.

Josh slides the Honda into their designated space – the one he and Drake decorated with cans of spray paint at the beginning of their senior year after the space had been assigned to them. Actually, it had been assigned to Josh since the spaces were awarded based on grade point average. Luckily for Drake, he and Josh ride together, or, as Josh likes to joke, Drake would have to park at the gas station on the corner and walk the rest of the way.

Of course, Mindy Crenshaw parks one space closer to the school than they do. Or had, at least, until her parents decided to become missionaries and the whole family moved to Zimbabwe two months after the school year started. Now the space belongs to Robbie Winchell even though technically, his GPA is six one-thousandths of a point lower then Josh's. Eric Blonnowitz parks in the space on the other side of Josh; he and Craig ride together to school.

Josh turns off the car and sits staring out the windshield at the building. The first bell is in ten minutes and students in varying stages of wakefulness are milling around campus. The cliques are clearly delineated – the cheerleaders, the jocks (grouped according to what sport they play), the nerds, the Goths, the Christians, the outcasts, the student politicians, and the pseudo-intellectuals, who differ from the nerds in that the nerds are really smart and try not to look it and the pseudos try to look really smart but aren't.

A random memory from a happier time pops into his head.

"_It should say 'Josh & Drake'. It's my space after all. I'm just letting you use it." Josh is holding a can of red spray paint in his right hand and gesturing at his brother with his left. They're standing in their new parking space, getting ready to personalize it within the parameters allowed by the school administration._

"_But D comes before J in the alphabet," Drake counters, wrinkling his forehead for a brief moment before deciding that he's right._

"_So do A, B, and C. And E and F and G and H and –"_

"_Okay, okay. Spare me the 'Hooked on Phonics' lesson," Drake says, shaking the can of blue spray paint in his hand, the mixing ball knocking loudly against the sides. He looks around the parking lot, sees the many students who are spending their Saturday morning doing the same thing as he and Josh – declaring their seniority by staking their claim on a coveted piece of asphalt. A slow grin spreads across his lips. "Besides, 'Drake & Josh' has a certain flow. A certain…_je ne sais quoi._" And he shakes the can again._

_Josh quirks his eyebrow and fights to keep the grin off his face. "You don't even know what that means, do you?"_

_Drake laughs. "Sure I do. It means, 'Everyone knows that it's my brother's brains that got us this primo spot and that the least he can do as a consolation is to let me put my name first'." He looks back at Josh, an expectant grin on his face._

"_It means all that, does it?" Josh quips, smirking. "And here I thought it meant 'a certain something'," he adds, framing finger quotes around the last few words._

"_Well, sure. If you want to be _literal_ about it." Drake waggles his eyebrows. "But there are other _hidden_ meanings."_

_Josh laughs. "Fine. You win. You _always_ do." He sweeps his arm dramatically over the unadorned space as he steps back. "Be my guest."_

The names are faded now, having been bleached by the sun and worn off by the tires. He and Drake had planned to repaint them, but hadn't gotten around to it. Now, it seems so unimportant.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Drake staring through the windshield, too, absently scratching the bandage on his left wrist with his right thumb. "You don't have to do this," Josh says softly, breaking the silence that had settled inside the small car.

Drake doesn't reply, just closes his eyes for a moment and swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. The courage that he was infused with at the house seems to have dissipated.

"Let me take you home."

At this, Drake turns his head to meet his brother's eyes across the console. "You'll be late," he says simply.

"So what?" Josh studies his brother in the early morning sunlight filtering through the windows. The circles under his eyes seem even more pronounced and Josh remembers waking to the sounds of Drake's nightmares the night before. He hadn't awakened Drake, knew that wasn't what his brother would have wanted, knew he wouldn't have talked about it anyway. So he had just listened to his brother's muffled cries, his own eyes burning, and pretended to be asleep when he saw Drake awaken suddenly and sit up, his labored breaths loud in the quiet room.

But Drake is shaking his head. "Stop trying to protect me, Josh."

Josh feels his throat tighten as tears prick his eyes. He blinks them away as he says angrily, "Yeah, 'cause I've done such a great job of it, haven't I?" He turns away, staring out the driver's window.

He hears Drake sigh – a long, slow sound that sinks like a stone in the air between them. "It wasn't your fault," Drake softly replies.

Josh feels his shoulders tense at that, his face contorting with emotion for a moment before he regains his control. He takes a deep breath to calm himself before turning back to face Drake. Those are the first words he's heard Drake say without a trace of anger in a long time. They lock eyes for a long moment. Finally, Josh breaks the tension by putting his hands back on the wheel and saying, "Last chance."

A tiny smile draws up one corner of Drake's mouth and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "The bell's about to ring." And he reaches for the door handle and pushes open the door, the fingers of his left hand curling around the straps of his backpack.

Josh watches him exit the car, sees the way he stops and stares at the building. Josh can't see Drake's face from his vantage point, but he can see the way his brother's fingers curl tightly around the top of the door, the way his fingertips turn white at the pressure. He pushes open his own door and steps out, standing up and looking at his brother across the roof of the car.

"Drake."

When Drake turns to look at him, Josh says, "If you need to take the car…" He shrugs, leaving the rest unspoken.

Drake nods, turning his eyes back to the building and Josh sees his grip tighten around the straps of his backpack. "I'll be fine," he says softly, closing his door with a resolute thud.

But Josh isn't sure if his brother is trying to convince him or himself.

* * *

Except he isn't fine. Not really. And it doesn't take him long to realize that he has only been fooling himself.

They walk into the building side-by-side, just like a thousand times before, except that for the first time, Drake wishes no one knew him at all, wishes that he could just blend into the walls and be invisible. His dark eyes dart quickly around the hallway, searching for that flicker of recognition, which would then be followed closely by that unmistakable flicker of realization of what he'd done to himself.

He folds his arms across his chest and finds himself pushing involuntarily against his brother, trying to disappear. Why did he think that he could do this? He's not brave. He's not courageous. He's proven that in dramatic fashion, hasn't he?

He finds himself being suddenly dragged into the corner next to a janitor's closet, then being stopped and held in place by two warm hands on his shoulders. Josh is standing in front of him, using his tall body to shield Drake from view. He watches in silence as Josh drops his backpack at his feet, then peels off his outer shirt and holds it out to him.

"Take it," Josh says softly.

"Josh…" Drake stammers, looking from his brother's face to the shirt and back again.

"It took a lot of guts just to come here today," Josh replies, meeting his brother's tired eyes; the flash of _yeah, right_ in them does not go unnoticed. "You've got nothing to prove to anyone," he continues fiercely. He holds the shirt out closer. "You can always take it off later."

Drake considers this, then reaches for the shirt, his fingers brushing against Josh's. Wordlessly, he lets his backpack slide to the floor. He slips his arms into the sleeves – still warm from Josh's body heat – and lets his arms fall to his sides. The shirt's too big and the sleeves go past his fingertips. He looks down, turning his hands over and back beneath the cuffs and looks back up at his brother, who's wearing a small smile of amusement.

"Perfect fit," Josh quips.

Drake smirks. "You have arms like a chimpanzee."

Josh laughs. "Yeah well, they match my ginormous head," he says, pointing to his skull.

Drake snorts softly, the closest thing to a laugh he's had in what feels like forever. And for a few seconds, it's almost like it used to be. But it doesn't last. Drake looks somberly up at Josh, whose smile slowly fades. "Thank you," he whispers.

Josh nods. "Sure." Then he busies himself rolling up the shirtsleeves until Drake's hands are visible.

The bell rings and Josh reaches down to pick up both their bookbags, handing Drake's to him. "If you need anything…" he says pointedly.

Drake grabs his bag and hooks it over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah," he says, trying to sound casual. He pushes past Josh. "See you at lunch."

* * *

He's in one of the stalls in the boys' restroom down the hall from history class, trying to will himself to go. First period had been rather uneventful, punctuated only by Brady Huttinger, super-jock and jerk-off extraordinaire, saying, "Hey, Parker. Heard you had leprosy and that your dick fell off," laughing at his own joke.

"At least I have one to lose," Drake had retorted, sliding into his desk just as the bell rang and stubbornly not looking at Brady for the rest of the period. He couldn't help but notice, however, the undisguised look of pity that Mrs. Kowalski had given him when she met his eyes as she took attendance. It lingered longer than usual and Drake had to force a small smile around his clenched jaw before she finally moved on to the next student.

The warning bell rings, muted by the walls of the restroom, and still Drake stands leaning against the locked door of the stall. The last person leaves after a few seconds and then the room is quiet. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to try to calm the racing pulse in his neck. His fingers are trembling and he curls his hands into fists to still them. He can't seem to get his feet to move.

The late bell rings but it takes him several more seconds before he finally manages to push himself away from the door, manages to pull the lock out of the slot with a loud grating noise, manages to walk all the way to the restroom door and open it. He looks up and down the hallway, grateful to find it empty, and steps out, walking towards Mr. Bradford's classroom, each step making his heart beat more wildly against his ribcage.

He looks through the narrow window, sees his desk sitting empty over Amber Locke's shoulder, and swallows down the bitter wave of bile that burns the back of his throat. No one sees him standing there, staring through the window like he's about to walk into his execution. He could just walk away and no one would know the difference.

But he would know.

He curls his fingers around the door handle and pulls it open quickly before he changes his mind.

"…we're going to talk about –" Mr. Bradford is saying in his "teacher" voice, the one that's similar to but not quite the same as the voice that plagues Drake's dreams every night.

The teacher's words stop suddenly when he sees Drake walk in and Drake hears the dry erase marker bounce off the aluminum tray as it falls from Mr. Bradford's grasp. He can feel the man's eyes on him, but can't bring himself to look back. The students stare at him like he's the new kid.

_Maybe they know. Maybe Mr. Bradford told them._

But then he hears the man say, "Welcome back, Mr. Parker. I'm glad you're feeling better," and he knows that isn't the case at all. The teacher's voice is so even, so calm and Drake is amazed at his ability to switch between shock and impassiveness so seamlessly.

Drake wishes he could do that because right now he's frozen to his spot on the floor. He wants to move, but he can't. He'd only thought as far ahead as actually walking into the room; he hadn't thought how he'd get through the rest of it.

"You're tardy," Mr. Bradford continues lightly. "But seeing as how this is your first day back, I'll go easy on you." He laughs. "This time." He bends to pick up the marker he dropped, then sees Drake still standing there, staring at the class. "Is everything alright, Mr. Parker?" he asks.

Drake can hear the concern in the man's voice and has a sudden urge to throw up, swallowing it down with effort. "Yeah," he whispers, nodding. He feels light-headed.

_I can't do this_, he thinks, and takes a step backwards towards the door, but then he hears Mr. Bradford say, "Please have a seat, Mr. Parker. We have a lot of catching up to do," and stops in his tracks. _We_, he says. Not _you_.

Drake doesn't say anything, but finally meets the man's eyes for the first time since walking into the room. The blue eyes staring back at him are clear and impassive and Drake feels a prickle of anger beneath his skin. He stares unblinking, his dark eyes burning, and watches with satisfaction as the hint of smile that adorns Mr. Bradford's lips slowly dissolves away.

Finally, Mr. Bradford says coldly, "Either have a seat, Mr. Parker, or take a trip to the principal's office. The choice is yours." And suddenly, his eyes – and voice – are exactly like Drake remembers them from his nightmares.

Drake turns silently and shuffles to his desk, sinking into it heavily. He drops his backpack on the floor and folds his arms across his lap beneath the desk. Mr. Bradford starts talking again; Drake relegates the sound to the background.

As Drake looks around the room, what strikes him the most is the ordinariness of it. It's just a classroom, identical in size and shape to dozens of others in the building. But he knows better. He knows the exact way the shadows darken the corners when the lights are off, knows how cool the linoleum feels beneath his cheek and how hard it is against his skull. He knows how hollow his voice sounds in the air when the room is empty.

But the others don't know; they have no clue that this room holds secrets, that it hides terrible truths. They don't know anything at all.

Mr. Bradford mercifully ignores him for the rest of class. When the bell finally rings, he squeezes out the door through a crowd of migrating students, some of whom are talking to him, asking him how he's doing, asking him what was wrong with him.

He just pushes past them, not trusting himself to speak.

* * *

Leaning against the wall, Drake holds his cell phone in his right hand, staring down at it like he can simply will its existence away. He knows he should've just dropped the thing in the nearest dumpster or put it down the garbage disposal a long time ago. He should've gotten a new number. He should've taken it to the cops after leaving the alley, should've shown them the messages. He should've told Josh. He should've told his parents.

He should've done _something_. And he _had_ done something. Maybe it wasn't the right thing, but it was all he could manage. But it hadn't worked.

So now, here he is, staring at the words, "New text messages," his eyes reading them again and again like they're in Sanskrit. He doesn't want to read them. He _knows_ who they're from. But it's like he can't help it, like his brain is programmed to push the button no matter how much it may hurt.

He feels like he's in that experiment he saw on a documentary he and Josh watched once – the one where rats pressed a lever to get a piece of food. They kept pressing and pressing and pressing, lulled into a false sense of security, lured by the promise of a treat. And then, even after the lever was attached to electricity and pressing it meant receiving a painful shock, they continued to press it. The desire for the reward outweighed the pain of acquiring it.

He opens his inbox with a trembling thumb. He knew it; they're from Ginger.

"ive missed u"

"i need 2 c u"

"plz?"

Drake closes his fingers around the phone, hoping to crush it, visualizing it turning into dust in his palm, watching it sift through his fingers. But it vibrates instead, startling him. Incoming call.

It's Josh. A rush of breath Drake didn't realize he'd been holding flows out of him and he sags against the wall outside his Biology class as people mill past him on their way to their next destination, not noticing him at all.

He presses the green button and places the phone against his ear. "Hey."

"How's it going?" Josh's voice is soft with concern and Drake doesn't know whether to be angry about it or grateful.

"Okay, I guess," Drake replies, brushing off the tendrils of fear that had begun to grip him and concentrating on the conversation, willing his heart to stop pounding. "I hear there's a pool going about why I was out."

"_Dude, my money's on 'coma'," Devon says to him, smiling. He's sitting sideways in his desk, which is in front of Drake's in Mr. Johnson's Algebra class, eagerly telling Drake about the pool. He doesn't seem to notice that Drake isn't smiling back. "Tucker has 'brain tumor'. Scotty has 'sex change'. So, what was it?" _

_It's supposed to be funny, but Drake doesn't feel like laughing. He tugs at the rolled-up cuffs of Josh's shirt and looks directly at Devon, saying dryly, "Amputation."_

_Devon gives him a doubtful look, but nonetheless his hazel eyes flit rapidly to each of Drake's limbs just in case. "Right," he says, meeting Drake's eyes above the desk. "Good one." The look in Drake's eyes makes him uneasy. The bell rings then, signaling the beginning of class and he turns around, leaving the conversation unfinished._

"Oh, yeah," Josh says a bit sheepishly, an apologetic tone in his voice. "I meant to tell you about that. They kept asking me what was wrong with you. Said it was worth a hundred dollars." He sighed. "Sorry about that."

"It's no big deal," Drake says, shrugging. Then he adds sarcastically, "Whoever picked 'suicide attempt' just made a hundred bucks."

There is long silence on the other end and Drake can picture his brother's face: eyes closed and lips pressed together in contained anguish. "I don't think anyone picked that one." His voice is so soft, Drake barely hears him over the static and the din of the hallway.

"Just a joke, Josh," Drake says, sighing. "Sorry."

There's another brief silence before Josh asks, "You comin' to lunch?" Drake can hear the forced cheer in his voice and grits his teeth against it.

"Yeah," Drake replies as he pushes away from the wall. "I'm on my way there now. You in the lunchroom or outside?"

"Neither. I'm still in Chem. I was just putting the glassware away. I'll meet you at our table. Okay?" Josh says hopefully.

"Yeah," Drake replies, heading towards the outside patio to the east of the lunchroom. 'Our table' is the one he and Josh always sit at in the back corner of the patio. This time of day, it falls under the shade of a couple palm trees planted just outside the fence.

But when Josh arrives at the patio five minutes later, Drake isn't there. And he doesn't show for the rest of lunch, either.

* * *

Drake is rounding the corner towards the patio, doing his best to avoid eye contact with everyone, when he hears someone calling him. His head turns automatically and he locks eyes with Maddie, who's approaching him from the hallway to his left, a hesitant smile on her face.

Panicking, he stops suddenly, his shoes scuffing against the floor. His heartbeat pounds inside his head and his fingers convulse around the straps of his backpack, his breath caught in his throat. She's coming closer and he feels like a cornered animal, desperate to escape.

He can't face her.

Pure adrenaline fuels his legs and he turns quickly on his heels and walks briskly for the exit, trying to ignore the sound of her voice calling his name behind him. In his haste, he runs nearly head-long into a boy, causing the kid to drop his books. "Sorry," Drake says weakly at the kid's vehement protest, his mouth dry. But he doesn't stop to help.

Bursting through the exit, he keeps walking blindly, his feet carrying him into the bright midday sunshine. He blinks against it and struggles to calm the swirling thoughts colliding inside his head.

But she's behind him, calling his name, the note of urgency in her voice more pronounced.

He just keeps walking, not turning to look at her, not stopping to let her catch up easily. But then suddenly she's beside him, taking two steps for every one of his, and she's saying, "Drake, stop. Please stop. I want to talk to you."

"Leave me alone," he mutters, increasing his pace. He's nearly jogging now.

But she doesn't. Instead, she reaches for his arm, her fingers locking around his left forearm, tugging. And suddenly a flash of padded cuffs holding him in place explodes across his mind and he snaps his arm from her grasp and turns on her, his dark eyes flashing angrily. "Don't fuckin' touch me!" he screams at her and he sees her face blanch at his words, sees her lips begin to tremble.

But he doesn't care and he turns and walks quickly away, leaving her in stunned shock to stare after him.

By the time he reaches the car, he's buzzing with anger; he can feel it like a current of electricity beneath his skin. He tries the driver's door, but it's locked. Irritated, he fumbles in his pockets for his keys, then searches his bag for them. When he realizes he doesn't have them, that he left them at home, his anger boils over into an unsuppressed rage that he can no longer control.

He kicks the door savagely, then kicks it again. He kicks until he's breathless, his backpack flying off his shoulder, then starts pounding on the window with his fists. He wants to break it, wants to feel it shatter beneath his hands, to see the shards scatter across the seat. So he hits it again. And again. And again. He focuses on the pain in his hands, welcomes it. It's sharp and acute, different from the dull ache he's been living with for weeks. It's almost exquisite.

"Drake! Stop it!" The scream is close by and the voice is shrill, but it barely registers with him and he pounds his hands against the window again, ignoring the plea.

"Stop it!" This time, he feels two hands on his arm, pulling him away, and he rears towards the intruder. But his arms feel like lead and they fall limply at his sides, his hands throbbing with each pounding heartbeat. When he focuses his eyes, he sees Maddie standing there staring at him, her blue eyes wet with unshed tears, her mouth slightly open.

"Drake," she whispers, his name like a benediction on her lips. She holds out a trembling hand to him, but pulls it back before touching him. "Why are you doing this?"

The words make him flinch. She's asked him that before in nearly the same tone of voice. And she was afraid then, too. Afraid of _him_. "I'm sorry," he whispers between breaths. He can't look at her, but couldn't anyway even if he wanted to because he feels like he's going to faint. He feels dizzy, his knees giving out beneath him, and he reaches blindly for the car, for something to break his fall.

A second later, he's on the ground, his left palm flat against the warm pavement, his legs bent at the knees, his back against the car. He's still struggling to breathe; the air seems too thick, like syrup, and he can't seem to get enough oxygen. He feels light-headed.

"Just breathe," he hears through the fog in his head. Her voice is soft and comforting and memories of hours-long late-night phone conversations fill his mind. She's his anchor, his touchstone. Even now. Even after everything.

"Maddie," he says after his breathing has finally started to slow and the wave of nausea that had threatened to drown him has receded. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And he hates those words, really, has heard them too many times for them to have any meaning anymore, but they're all he's got.

"Shhh," she whispers. She's sitting on her knees next to him, cradling his hand in her lap. But when she gives it a gentle squeeze, he hisses involuntarily. Looking down at it, she makes a face and brushes her fingertips feather-lightly across his battered knuckles. They're red and raw and the skin is broken on a couple of them, tiny pearls of blood peeking out from the abrasions. "You're bleeding."

He doesn't look, doesn't need to – he's very familiar with the sight of his own blood. Instead, he focuses on her, watching her as she studies his hand – the curve of her lips, the way her dark hair falls into her face, the way her lashes fan over her cheeks when she blinks. He's looking so hard that he doesn't notice when she pushes up his sleeve, only sees the way her eyes widen and her mouth opens, the way one hand covers her trembling lips.

And all of a sudden he knows that he can't hide anymore.

She reaches across him for his other arm, her eyes meeting his for a second in the small space between them, and pulls it to her. In all the commotion, the sleeve has ridden up his arm, and the white bandage peeks partially out of the cuff.

He sees the flood of tears that fill, then tumble from her eyes. He tugs his left arm free from her grasp and drops it onto his lap, tries to pull his right arm away, too, but she won't relinquish it. The look in her eyes tears at him and he feels the sting of tears in his own eyes. "I'm sorry," he says again, hating the way those words sound in his own voice, "that I keep hurting you."

But she shakes her head, raking her fingers across her cheeks, leaving wet smears across her skin. She stares at him, her blue eyes glistening, fresh tears replacing the ones she just wiped away. Then she hugs him, catching him off-guard. She finally lets go of his hand so she can wrap both arms around him tightly, her arms snaked under his, her hands gripping fistfuls of Josh's shirt.

He can feel her hair against his cheek, her warm breath against his neck, and he closes his eyes, his arms finding their way around her, holding her tightly. When he hears her whisper into his shoulder, "You're not alone," he cracks, and a sob escapes his throat before he can stop it.

The dam breaks violently, emotions long suppressed tearing from him in a flood that threatens to drown them both. And he clings to her, his fingers digging into her shirt, grasping handfuls of the soft fabric as he buries his face in the curve of her neck. He has the fleeting thought that he should push her away, that he should get up and run, that he should go back to hiding behind the walls he's so carefully constructed around himself.

But it's too late for that. Too late. He couldn't get up even if he wanted to. Because he's suddenly adrift on an open sea and she's his life raft. He needs her to keep him from slipping under.

She holds him through all of it, only moving to shift her weight to a more comfortable position beside him, perched against her left hip, her legs curled on the pavement next to his. She doesn't say anything else, just tightens her arms around him, her hands flat against his back as she absorbs his pain.

Finally, the only sound that remains is that of their breathing, shallow and uneven. After a few moments, she loosens her grip on him but doesn't let him go completely. She's willing to sit there as long as he needs; she's waiting for him to give her direction.

He does so a moment later, letting her go, and she sits up, meeting his eyes briefly before he turns away. He looks down at his hands as he tugs the sleeves back down, covering the evidence. Then he presses the backs of his sleeves to his eyes to dry his tears and drops his hands once again into his lap.

Maddie shifts again so that she's leaning against the car, knees drawn up like Drake's. Their shoulders are touching. Reaching over, she covers his right hand with her left one, letting it rest there gently. In the distance, the sound of the bell cuts through the silence.

He looks over at her then, his dark eyes still red and full of a sadness that cuts her. "You should go back," he says.

But she doesn't move. "What about you?" she asks.

His eyes flit to the building looming in the distance, to the students scattering in every direction, heading to their next class, and shakes his head. "I can't." He turns his eyes back towards her. "Not yet."

"Me, neither," she tells him, pulling his hand into her lap and cradling it between both of hers.

"Maddie. I don't want you to get in trouble because of me," he replies, but there's no conviction in it and he doesn't try to pull his hand away. The warmth of her skin is reassuring.

"Yeah, I know," she says. "First detention. Now ditching class. You're a bad influence on me, Drake Parker." A smile tugs at her lips.

The expression is so sincere that he smiles back. It feels good. "So now what?" he asks her, sniffling sharply and wiping the residual moisture from his eyes. He scans the parking lot quickly before looking back at her. "We can't just sit here, you know. Robocop will catch us." Robocop is the school resource officer who prowls the grounds looking for truants. His real name is Deputy Rick Mackie, but he earned his nickname because of his immaculate High & Tight haircut and his omnipresent mirrored sunglasses. He hunts for students who try to leave campus without prior authorization by searching for them from the padded seat of a golf cart with the school logo emblazoned on the front.

As if on cue, the sound of Robocop's golf cart rumbles in the distance. He's just rounding the north side of the building and turning east, making his way to the parking lot.

"There he is!" Drake whispers, pointing with his left hand towards the slowly-approaching vehicle. Since they're sitting on the ground, they haven't been spotted yet.

Maddie follows where he's pointing and giggles. "Come on," she says suddenly, standing, tugging on his arm.

He stands up, feeling stronger than he did before. "Where're we goin'?" he asks, looking from her to Robocop then back again.

She's all-out grinning now. "To the getaway car!"

"But…" Drake begins, but she's already grabbed her backpack and is looking back at him expectantly.

"Get your stuff and let's go!" she urges enthusiastically, tugging on his hand.

He gives one last look to Robocop and is startled to see the man looking back at him. The deputy presses the accelerator on the little cart, making the small motor rev as it tries to respond to his command for more speed.

Drake grins, ducking to grab his bag, then allowing himself to be led towards the next row of cars. They can hear the officer shout, "Hey! You there! Stop!" behind them, but they don't heed the command. They just keep running.

She lets go of his hand and starts fumbling in the front pocket of her backpack. A second later, her hand emerges, holding a set of keys that jangle brightly against her palm. The taillights of a car flash in front of them and she runs to the driver's side of a red Mini Cooper with a black and white checkerboard top. "Get in!" she yells to him as she reaches for the door.

"Stop!" they hear again from behind, but the deputy's voice has grown more distant.

Drake's fingers curl around the door handle and he pulls it open, jumping inside the car and tossing his bag on the floor between his feet. She's already got the key in the ignition and is turning it when he slams the door shut.

"Buckle up," she says, turning in her seat to look out the back window as she backs the tiny car quickly out of the space.

Reaching for the seatbelt, Drake snaps it into place just as she's righting the car and switching it into DRIVE. He looks over at her; she's flushed slightly and chewing her bottom lip in concentration. A slow smile creeps across his mouth.

Then suddenly, he remembers something. "Wait!" he says, looking through the windshield. They're rapidly approaching the main gate, which is usually kept locked during the day to prevent this very thing – escape. "How are we gonna get out?"

She laughs, tossing a brief glance at him before turning her eyes back to the front. "Don't worry," she says lightly. "The gate's broken. Someone drove through it last week." Her smile widens as she looks at him again. "Lucky for us." And sure enough, as she turns the corner towards the exit, Drake can see the gaping hole where the gate used to be, the part of the fence it was attached to lying in a mangled heap.

Just then, Robocop appears off to the side, zipping down the sidewalk towards the exit, hoping to get there before they do. "Hold on!" Maddie exclaims, pressing her foot to the accelerator, and the little car responds easily, smoothly picking up speed. As they burst through the exit, they can see the deputy shaking his fist at them and yelling. Drake looks in the rearview mirror and sees the golf cart finally reach the exit. He can also see the sunlight glint off the man's mirrored sunglasses as he stares after them in defeat.

"Woo hoo!" Drake yells, the sound bouncing around inside the tiny car, banging his fists lightly against the dash.

Maddie laughs, the sound as bright as tinkling glass. She's breathing heavily as she pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She turns the corner into a residential neighborhood and pulls over to the side of the road, placing the car in PARK and letting the engine idle. Her eyes shine with exuberance when she turns to face him. "Where to?"

Her joy is contagious and Drake finds himself smiling again. He's smiled more in the last fifteen minutes than he has in a month. But then a twinge of guilt pierces his gut and his smile slowly fades. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks her seriously. "I'm sure if we go back right now, you won't be in too much trouble." He smirks self-deprecatingly. "Especially if I tell them it was my idea."

Her smile softens, but doesn't disappear. "Drake," she softly explains, "there is nowhere else I'd rather be right now than here with you." A faint blush colors her cheeks but she doesn't look away. She holds his gaze for a long moment before he sees her smile widen into a grin. "Besides," she says, "this is the most fun I've had in a very long time."

He holds her gaze for a long moment, feeling his throat constrict and the prick of tears behind his eyes. "Thank you," he finally says, his voice soft.

"For what?" She's not smiling anymore, but her eyes are twinkling. "Harboring a fugitive? Aiding and abetting a known delinquent?" She shrugs. "My pleasure."

But Drake doesn't respond to that, says gently, "For still being my friend. Even though I don't deserve it." He wants to touch her, but he doesn't.

Her eyes shine with sudden tears, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she brushes her fingertips through his bangs, pushing the tousled tresses out of his eyes. His hair is shaggier than the last time she saw him and she suddenly smiles.

"You need a haircut."

Drake's hand automatically goes to his hair. It had always been a point of pride for him, but lately he hasn't cared. "You think so?"

She grins, reaching with both hands to lift his bangs off his forehead and peering beneath them dramatically. "If you could balance a ball on your nose while pedaling a tricycle, I could take you on Letterman."

He pushes her hands away. "Cute," he quips. His hair has fallen to nearly beyond the tip of his nose and he smirks through the fringe when he hears her laugh. "Maybe you're right," he says sheepishly, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

"So," she says after a moment, turning back towards the front and placing her hands on the wheel. "We've got the whole rest of the day. Where do you want to go?"

Drake pulls the visor down and flips open the vanity mirror, studying his reflection. He tries not to notice the dark circles or the pale skin, focusing instead on his hair. "How 'bout a barber?" he replies, turning his head in the mirror.

"Drake," she says. "I was just joking."

"I know," he says, looking at her, his dark eyes unwavering. "But it's time for a change." He spreads his hands open wide. "A new Drake," he adds resolutely.

She gives him a crooked smile. "I kinda like the old Drake."

But he shakes his head. "I don't," he replies softly, his voice nearly a whisper.

She takes his hand, the mood suddenly somber. "Okay."

* * *

Maddie's busy flipping through a tattered copy of an old magazine when he approaches her, freshly coiffed and itchy from the stray hairs on the back of his neck. He runs his hand over his new haircut, smiling lopsidedly at the strange feeling of soft spikes beneath his palm.

She looks up at him, her eyes studying his new haircut and then his face, as if she can't quite seem to put the two together. A vague smile draws up the corners of her mouth.

When she doesn't say anything after a few moments, his face falls. "You hate it."

"Not at all," she says, dropping the magazine in the rack and standing. She steps closer and lifts her hand to his hairline, brushing her fingers along the spikes. She smiles. "I like it."

He lets out the breath he's been holding. "Really?" The lopsided smile returns.

"Really." She touches the tips of his ears. "I never realized you had such cute ears." But instead of her blushing this time, he does, and her smile grows into a grin.

"Um," Drake says hastily. "I still have to pay." And he turns quickly and walks to the counter, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He still has cash from his last gig tucked away inside and he hands a couple bills to the barber. "Thanks," he says to the man.

The barber looks back at him, black eyes sparkling. He looks like he stepped right out of the 1950s: silver-white hair, dark bushy eyebrows, a white smock, black slacks, and wingtips. "She's a pretty girl," he says, motioning to Maddie with his chin as he takes the money from Drake. The gold-plated nametag that says "Saul" flashes in the light.

Drake casts a glance at her over his shoulder, smiling. He's never really thought about it before, but she is pretty, he realizes. She had always just been Maddie. More of a voice than a face. He turns back to Saul. "Yeah, she is," he replies, taking his change. He gives Saul a ten dollar tip.

* * *

"What are you looking for?" she asks him, her brow furrowed in curiosity.

He's twisted in his seat, peeking into the back of the tiny car. He gazes at her out of the corner of his eye, a smile curving his lips. "The clowns," he says, chuckling at the smirk she gives him.

"Ha ha," she deadpans. "Be nice to Lola. She saved us from Robocop."

"Lola?"

"That's her name." She pats the dash lovingly. "She's a good girl."

Drake rolls his eyes. "Oh, lord."

"So what do you call your car?" she asks him challengingly.

"A piece of junk."

"Come on," she says, giggling. "It's not that bad."

Drake lifts his hands, starts ticking things off on his fingers. "The air conditioner barely works, the windows leak when it rains, the upholstery's got holes in it, and it vibrates when you go over 55 miles an hour."

"Does the radio work?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then. What are you complaining about? That's all you need." And he can see from her profile that she's smiling.

He grins back. "Can't argue with that." He settles back in his seat and rests his head along the headrest. They travel in silence for a long while before the sound of a growling stomach breaks it.

"Hungry?" Maddie asks him facetiously.

He's ravenous, actually. The appetite that abandoned him weeks ago is suddenly back with a vengeance. But he plays it off. "A little," he says.

She nods knowingly. "What do you want? My treat."

"Maddie –"

"No arguments," she interrupts. "Besides," she adds, "I'm hungry, too. I missed lunch, remember?"

Drake snorts. "Vividly." They haven't talked about what happened back at school and he's grateful. He doesn't know what he would say if she asked. "Chinese," he blurts suddenly, in belated response to her question.

"Chinese it is, then," she replies.

* * *

They're sitting under a large shade tree in a small children's park, eating their food in silence. Drake is picking through an open container of General Tso's chicken, stabbing a piece with one chopstick and bringing it to his mouth. He repeats the process, chewing slowly, the spiciness burning his tongue. He feels her eyes on him.

"What?" he asks, the word garbled because his mouth is full.

She just stares at him, an odd expression on her face, cradling a container of Moo Goo Gai Pan in one hand while holding her chopsticks with the other. "Are you eating it or sacrificing it to the gods?"

Drake's brow wrinkles. "Huh?"

She smiles at him, gesturing to his one chopstick and the piece of chicken speared on the end of it. "The restaurant had forks, you know."

"I know," he says, shrugging. He pops the chicken into his mouth, stabs another piece. "It tastes better this way," he adds, grinning closed-lipped around his mouthful.

"Uh-huh," she says doubtfully, giving him a look.

"I swear," he replies after swallowing. "Try it."

She looks at him skeptically, then sticks one of her chopsticks deep down into her container, emerging a moment later with a piece of chicken. Her blue eyes twinkling, she pops it into her mouth. After chewing deliberately and swallowing, she announces, "I don't know. Tastes the same to me."

He smirks at her. "That's because you're not doing it right." He pops his piece of chicken into his mouth and then points to himself with his chopstick. "It's taken me years to get the technique down."

"Is that right?" she quips.

"That's right," he replies, stabbing another piece and quirking an eyebrow. "Now, I'd be willing to teach you, but it'll take some time. It's not something that can be learned overnight."

She suppresses a grin. "Please, O Great One. Teach me the secrets of eating with one chopstick. I want to bask in the glow of your wisdom," she purrs, batting her eyelashes at him.

He tilts his head to the side, studying her as if he's measuring her worth. "I find you true of heart and strong of will. We shall start the lessons immediately." He pats the ground next to him. "Come closer."

She moves to sit next to him, her back against the large tree trunk, their shoulders almost touching. She turns her head to look at him. "I'm ready," she says, meeting his eyes. Much of the sadness in them has dissipated and they almost twinkle.

"Good," he replies. "But before we get to technique, there is much you need to learn first." He looks at her seriously. "Number one, it must only be used on food that has flavor." And he takes the container of Moo Goo Gai Pan out of her hands and sets it on his far side away from her.

"But," Maddie says in protest, reaching vainly after it, "I like the water chestnuts." Drake shakes his head. "Pea pods?" He shakes his head again.

Then he hands her his half-empty container of General Tso's chicken and one of her chopsticks. "You may practice on this."

She picks up the chopstick and moves to stab a piece of chicken, but he stops her with his hand. "Not so fast, young one," he says. "There is one more thing you need to know before you begin. It is very important."

"What is it?" she asks gravely, looking into his eyes.

"This technique," he replies, leaning in a couple inches, lowering his voice to a whisper. "It does not work so well with rice."

She looks at him quizzically, then erupts into laughter, almost dropping the container of chicken on the ground. She laughs until tears form, then looks back at him as she drags the back of her hand across her eyes, still holding the chopstick.

He watches her closely as she catches her breath. "I like they way you laugh," he finally says.

Maddie doesn't say anything, just looks at him, and he can see her pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat. He stares at it, watching the thin skin pulsate with every heartbeat, and he wants to run his fingers over it, but he holds back, still afraid to touch her.

Then she kisses him. It's soft and gentle, just a slight pressure of her lips against his. And after a second, he closes his eyes, opening his mouth slightly and feeling hers do the same, their lips interlocking like puzzle pieces. Her lips are soft and warm against his and he brings his hand to her face, his fingers brushing along her cheek before finding their way to her hair.

She pulls away after a second, but not far; his fingers are still in her hair. When he opens his eyes, she's looking back at him, biting her bottom lip. "What was that for?" he finally asks her, letting his hand drop.

"Because I wanted to know what it was like," she whispers.

He smiles crookedly, lifting his eyebrows. "And?"

"It was nice."

"Nice. That's it?" He's fishing and she knows it. And he knows she knows it.

"Really nice?" she ventures, smiling slightly, teasing him.

He pouts a little. "I guess that's better."

She laughs. "To tell you the truth, I have nothing to compare it to. Would you rather I had said, 'it was better than nothing'?"

He looks at her in silence for a few moments. "Was that really your first kiss?" he finally asks her.

"Well, we all can't have people falling at our feet, you know. Think how hard it would be to walk," she quips, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

A few seconds later, Drake unexpectedly flops to the ground and lies there looking up at her. She looks down at him like he's lost his mind. "What are you doing?"

A slow smile curves his lips. "Falling at your feet," he says, watching with amusement as she blushes.

* * *

It's nearing dusk when he opens his eyes and blinks against the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Maddie shifts sleepily against him, sighing against his chest. He doesn't remember falling asleep.

They had been chatting about nothing in particular, following the usual pattern of their previous conversations - him concentrating on the sound of her voice as she talks his demons away. He remembers taking off Josh's shirt and rolling it into a ball to use as a makeshift pillow, remembers lying down and staring up into the branches and watching as the leaves swished against each other in the breeze. He remembers her lying down beside him as she told him about the time that she fell from a tree when she was six years old and cracked her head open above her right eye, that it took eight stitches and that if you looked close enough you could still see the scar, right above her eyebrow. So he had looked, and sure enough, there it was, faint but distinct, just like she said. That's when she had rolled onto her side and rested her head on his shoulder and he had curled his arm around her protectively. He felt her chest rise and fall with each breath, felt her fingers caress the bandage on his other wrist. She didn't say anything, didn't ask any of the million questions he knew were crowded on the tip of her tongue; she just grazed her fingers gently over the soft cotton gauze like it was a precious artifact. That's the last thing he remembers.

"Maddie," he says softly, shaking her. He doesn't really want to wake her, but his arm has gone numb and he needs to move.

She stirs against him. "Hmmm?" she mutters groggily.

"Wake up, sleepyhead. We gotta get up." He shakes her again.

"Jus' a few more minutes," she slurs, rubbing her cheek against his t-shirt and settling back against him.

He smiles into her hair. "I can't feel my arm."

His words jolt her and she sits up, blinking sleepily down at him. "You should've woken me up earlier," she tells him seriously, sounding slightly alarmed.

He sits up, rubbing his left arm to get the blood flowing again. "I just woke up myself." After a few seconds, his arm starts to tingle, then the pins and needles begin with a vengeance. The sensation makes him grimace.

"You okay?" she asks, concerned.

"I'll live," he replies, flexing his fist as warmth infuses his hand.

"I'm glad." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

He meets her eyes. "Me, too." And he means it.

* * *

It's almost dark when she pulls up in front of his house and cuts the engine. The streetlamps are on and the street is bathed in a yellow-orange glow that bleeds through the windshield and onto the dash. She looks through the window at his house.

"Nice house," she says.

Drake's eyes follow hers. The downstairs lights are on, shining cozily through the windows. His eyes flit to the window over the garage; that light is on, too. "Yeah," he says. "From the outside."

She turns in her seat to face him, her blue eyes looking dark in the waning light. "What do you mean?"

He tries to think of the right words to explain it. "Things are…" he begins, fumbling, "…weird right now. With my family." He looks towards the house, feeling the shadows start to creep in again. "They don't understand."

She's silent for a moment, then asks softly, "Have you tried explaining it to them?"

He drags his gaze back to her. "I can't."

"Maybe you should try," she says and he turns away to look out the window, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "They love you, Drake," she continues, resting her hand gently on his knee. "They'll understand."

He looks at her, his dark eyes burning with something she can't read. "No they won't," he whispers.

Maddie's eyes fill with tears at the desolation in his voice. The smiling boy from the park is gone and the realization of it breaks her heart. "You need to tell _someone_," she tells him. "Before it destroys you."

Her words hang heavily in the air between them.

The relief in his mother's eyes when he walks through the front door turns quickly to anger.

"Where have you been?" she demands, standing up from her seat on the couch. Walter remains sitting, but shoots Drake a look that's tinged with white-hot anger. _I won't let you keep hurting her_, it says. Drake ignores it.

He looks at his mother. "Out," he says evenly.

"Josh says you ditched school," she says incredulously and Drake can almost feel the anger radiating from her.

"That's right."

He sees her eyes flit over him quickly, taking in the backpack slung over his shoulder and the bunched-up shirt he's holding in his right hand. She stares at his hair, but doesn't mention it. "Why did you even go?" she asks him.

He tells her what he told Josh that morning: "It's Wednesday."

Her mouth goes slack and she stares at him like she doesn't know him at all, like he's a stranger. "I don't understand you," she says softly. But she's not really talking to him, he realizes. It's more like she's talking to herself.

"I know." And he meets Walter's gaze briefly before turning to go up the stairs. By the time he reaches the door to his room, he feels weighted down by the shadows that have once again taken up residence inside his skull.

Josh looks up from the book in his lap when Drake opens the door, his light brown eyes appraising his brother closely. "Nice haircut," Josh says, his voice flat. "Is that why you cut school? To get a makeover?"

Drake says nothing, just steps off the platform and walks over to his side of the room, dropping his bag on the floor. He tosses Josh's shirt towards him; it flutters to the floor a few feet from the bed.

"I tried calling you," Josh continues, closing his book roughly and tossing it on the bed next to him.

Drake doesn't respond, just empties his pockets onto the top of his dresser.

"When you didn't show for lunch, I got worried," Josh says. "The least you could've done was call me. Told me where you were." He maneuvers himself to the edge of the bed, puts his feet flat on the floor. "I don't care that you ditched. I mean, I understand…"

Drake's pulling his shirt over his head when Josh says those words, but he hears them clear as day, and he yanks the shirt the rest of the way off and clutches it in his fingers angrily. He turns on Josh. "You _understand_?" he asks viciously. "You _understand_? That's great. 'Cause Mom just told me she _doesn't_ understand. Maybe you can explain it to her." He throws the shirt fiercely to the floor and fumbles with the button on his jeans. Anger vibrates just beneath his skin, making his hands tremble, and it takes longer than it should to slide the metal button through the eyelet.

"Drake, I'm sorry," Josh says, the words barely audible through the noise in Drake's head.

"Don't," Drake says, unzipping his jeans as he toes off his shoes. He stops, looks across the room at Josh, who's standing now, staring back at Drake with wild eyes. "Don't say that." A beat. "Everyone's sorry, Josh. But it doesn't mean anything."

Josh stares at his brother in silence, feeling the waves of anger coming from him, disturbing the air between them like waves of heat radiating from blacktop in August. And he feels helpless. When the tears that were threatening begin to fall, he doesn't even move to wipe them away. "Just tell me, Drake," he whispers. "Tell me what you want me to say."

Drake's anger shatters at the look in his brother's eyes, at the broken note in his voice. The fragments of it scatter like dandelion fluff, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.

"_They love you, Drake."_

Drake closes his eyes against the memory. Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Josh is still watching him, waiting for him to say something. "Tell me that you love me," he whispers, his eyes holding Josh's.

Josh's face crumples at that and his shoulders start to shake from the force of his emotion. He looks down at his feet and Drake can see tears fall to the floor before Josh presses his hands to his eyes. Drake watches him cry, unable to move, waiting. He suddenly has a desperate need to hear the words.

After several moments, Josh lifts his head to look at Drake. His eyes are red, but they're clear, and they hold Drake's gaze unwaveringly.

"I love you."

* * *

It's nearly two in the morning when Drake gets the nerve up to wake him. Climbing down the ladder, he pads over to Josh's bed and kneels beside it. His brother looks so peaceful: his mouth hanging open slightly, soft snores emanating from the back of his throat.

Drake almost changes his mind and starts to get up. _No_, he admonishes himself and rests once again on his knees. _This is Josh. This is the person you trust more than anyone._

"_You need to tell _someone."

She's right. He does.

He reaches out slowly and grasps Josh's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. "Josh."

Josh's eyes fly open and he props himself up on his elbow, his bleary eyes meeting Drake's in the moonlight. "What's the matter?"

"I need to tell you something," Drake whispers, finally able to say the words he wanted to say a long time ago. It feels like another lifetime. In some ways, it is.

Josh sits up. "What is it?"

Drake stands and crawls onto the bed, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, burrowing his toes beneath the sheet. He can feel his brother's body heat and takes comfort in it, letting it curl warmly around him like a blanket.

The words, when they come, start slowly. But once they start, they tumble from his lips like rocks in an avalanche, each one carrying with it a part of the weight that's been pressing down on him relentlessly, slowly grinding him into dust.

He tells him about the tutoring and about Mr. Bradford.

He tells him about the alley and how he discovered who Ginger really was.

He cries when he tells him about the rape and about how shame and guilt prevented him from telling them after it happened, about how he was afraid that they would hate him for letting it happen.

He tells him about Maddie.

He tells him about the exact moment he decided to kill himself and about the night he tried to do it.

He tells him about his nightmares.

Josh listens to it all in agonized silence, gripping the sheet tightly in his fists. But his eyes are dry and burn with an anger that Drake can see even in the dark. Not anger _at_ him, he realizes, but anger _for_ him.

There's one more thing that Drake wants to tell him, something that he thinks Josh needs to hear, that he's needed to hear for a while now. "I want you to know something," Drake says softly. "I didn't really want to die," he continues, his voice a mere whisper. "I just didn't want to hurt anymore."

* * *

_Please review. Thank you._


	20. Breaking Point

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N 1:_** Another long chapter; about as long as the last one. BUT, it was about 8 pages/4500 words longer before my painstaking editing process. I really need to learn to 'cut the cord', you know? It's difficult for me to part with pieces of a chapter, but I had to ultimately ask myself, "Is it vital to the plot?" Anyway, I hope you like it!

**_A/N 2:_** Many thanks to **GMTH** for being a beta. She's been very supportive and helpful. :o)

* * *

_Chapter 20: Breaking Point_

_It had been three days. Three days since life as he'd known it suddenly stopped. Three days of skipping second period and ignoring text messages, of avoiding eye contact and of wondering if people could tell what had happened just by looking at him. Three days of forced smiles and of strategically rearranging the food on his plate to make it look like he'd eaten. Three days of ragged sleep and cold sweats and secret showers. Three days of sinking slowly through each hour like quicksand and of wishing he could just evaporate each morning with the dew._

_He felt eyes on him and looked up to see his mom gazing expectantly back at him. It was just he and Megan and Audrey. Both Walter and Josh were working._

"_Huh?" he asked her absently._

"_I asked if everything was alright," she said, nodding at his plate. "You've hardly touched your dinner." _

_He looked down at his plate, pushing a piece of chicken a few inches with the tines of his fork. "I'm not hungry, I guess."_

_She didn't respond right away and he felt her assessing him. "Are you sure everything's alright?" she finally asked. "You've been acting kind of strange lately."_

"_How can you tell?" Megan interjected brightly from beside him and out of the corner of his eye he could see her impish grin._

"_Shut up," he said automatically, but his heart wasn't in it. He forced himself to look at Audrey. "I think I might be coming down with something," he told her, hoping she couldn't hear his pounding heart._

_His mom gave him a concerned look and he tried not to squirm. She tilted her head. "You do look a little pale," she said, leaning over and reaching her hand towards him like she was going to check his temperature._

_Jerking back, he said quickly, "Mom. Stop. I'm not twelve, okay? I know how to use a thermometer."_

"_Yeah, but can you spell it?" Megan sniped, sniggering._

_Drake clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt and dropped his fork on his plate with a loud clang_. _"May I be excused?" he asked, irritated._

_Audrey gave him another look. "Of course," she said, following him with her eyes as he stood up. "I'm glad it's Friday," she added as he picked up his plate and started for the kitchen. "You can use the weekend to rest."_

_He stopped and turned around. "I've got a gig tomorrow night," he told her. He had bowed out of practice Wednesday night, telling them he was sick, but he had assured them that he'd be there on Saturday. It was the only other thing he had to focus on and he suddenly felt it slipping through his fingers._

"_Honey," she said. "Are you sure you'll feel up to it? Maybe you should reschedule."_

"_I can't," he said, feeling his fingers convulse around the edge of the plate. He felt stupid standing there holding it, but he couldn't seem to move. "We've been waiting three months to play at Clancy's. This may be our only chance. If we cancel now, we might not get another one."_

"_Alright," Audrey said softly._

"_I'll be fine," he assured her, then turned and walked quickly into the kitchen before she detected the lie in his eyes._

_Standing at the sink, he scraped his food into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch, listening as the blades pulverized it, turning them off when they ran smoothly again._

_The kitchen door swung open behind him. "Mom said to wash mine, too," Megan said, plopping her dirty dishes into the sink in front of him._

_Drake just stared into the sink, watching the water go down the drain. "Sure."_

_He felt Megan staring at him, as if she was waiting for him to say something else. When he didn't, she said, "Man, you _must_ not be feeling well." Then she turned on her heels and left through the side door._

_He started washing the dishes, concentrating on the feel of the hot water against his skin and the way the soap felt slippery between his fingers. It was a clean feeling. He liked it._

"_Oh, by the way, your teacher called," his mom said as she walked into the kitchen. "Mr. Bradford."_

_The plate Drake was transferring to the strainer slipped from his fingers, hitting the edge of the sink and shattering into several pieces. Some of them bounced to the floor, some of them landed in the basin. He stared down at the pieces, his hands gripping the thin strip of countertop in front of him._

"_Sorry," he muttered thickly, tears stinging his eyes._

"_Don't worry about it," his mother said. Suddenly she was next to him, laughing. "I swear, between you and Walter, it's a wonder we have any dishes left." She nudged him with her elbow._

_She turned off the water and started reaching for the pieces. "No," Drake said quickly, pushing her hands out of the way. "I'll get it."_

"_Just be careful you don't cut yourself," she cautioned him. "Those fingertips are valuable, you know." She laughed again, the sound trailing after her as she headed towards the door to gather more plates._

"_What did he want?" The question tore from his throat painfully. He busied himself with the fragments because he didn't trust himself to look at her._

"_Who?" she asked. Then, "Oh, your teacher. Well…" She seemed to be pausing for effect and he could hear the barely contained excitement in her voice. Even his mom's smiles seemed to have sound. "It seems you're getting an A in History!"_

_Drake closed his eyes, several pieces of broken plate cradled in his hands._

_His mom chattered on. "He said he thought I'd like to know before progress reports came out next week."_

_The sharp edges cut into his palms as he squeezed his fingers around them. He opened his eyes and stared out the window. Mr. Johnson pulled into his driveway, his silver Audi glinting in the waning sunlight._

"_An A," she continued, her voice wistful. "I knew you could do it." _

_He forced himself away from the sink and counted the steps to the trashcan. There were five. He pressed the pedal with the toe of his sneaker to lift the lid and dropped the pieces into the trash. They crashed together dully, the sound muted by the remnants of a head of lettuce and yesterday's newspaper._

_Drake looked at his palms. Tiny pinpricks of blood showed starkly against his skin. He couldn't tear his eyes away._

_Suddenly her hands were on his and he chafed at the contact, fighting every urge he had to jerk away. "Oh, honey. I told you to be careful."_

"_I'm fine," he heard himself say, his voice flat._

"_You're bleeding," she clucked, studying his hands._

_It was too much. "I said I'm fine." And he tore his hands roughly from her grasp, walking back to the sink and turning on the water. As he ran his hands under the hot water, his gaze fell upon the house across the street. The Audi's trunk was open and Davey was helping his dad carry something into the house._

_He turned off the water and tore off several paper towels from the roll next to the sink, wiping his hands roughly, feeling the tiny stings from what amounted to nothing more than paper cuts._

"_Drake," he heard his mother say. The gentleness in her voice made his throat tighten. But he didn't turn around, just continued to stare out the window, watching as Mr. Johnson closed his trunk, trying to imagine the sound of it._

"_Honey," she said and pressed the backs of her fingers against his cheek._

_The touch made him flinch and he came crashing back into his own reality. "Mom!" He backed up a step. "I'm fine! How many times do I have to tell you?" His dark eyes burned into hers._

"_I'm your mother, Drake," she replied, trying to smile. "It's my job to worry about you."_

_The sudden flash of his anger died away and he sighed. "I'm sorry."_

_Audrey looked at him, her eyes bright. It was a look Drake knew well and he knew what was coming next. "I just can't get over it. An A. _My_ son." She smiled._

"_I'm glad you're happy," Drake replied._

"_Aren't you?"_

_Drake just shrugged._

_Audrey laughed, rolling her eyes. "I forgot. You're much too cool to get excited over an A."_

"_I've never cared about it as much as you do."_

_But Audrey's exuberance wasn't about to be dampened by his nonchalance. "Well, that's okay. Because I'm excited enough for the both of us." She laughed again. "In fact, when you bring your report card home next week, I think I'll frame it."_

"_Mom."_

_Audrey grew suddenly serious. "I'm proud of you, Drake. I know how much you sacrificed, giving up your free time."_

_Drake felt his fingers tighten around the damp clump of paper towels he still held in his right hand. "Mom," he said again._

"_I know, I know," Audrey replied, smiling faintly. "I'm getting mushy. I just want you to know that I appreciate how hard you've worked. You didn't want to continue with the tutoring, but you did. Because I wanted you to."_

_He wished she hadn't said that. Because something deep inside of him unraveled at those words._

_And they made him hate her just a little bit._

* * *

"_Goodnight, Maddie," he said reluctantly, looking towards the darkened house. He didn't want to let her go. He knew he was being selfish by keeping her up so late every night, but he needed her. For the past four nights, they had been following a pattern. After Josh had fallen asleep, his soft snores drifting across the room, Drake would creep down the ladder and out of the bedroom, padding down the stairs and grabbing the house phone on his way out to the back patio. He would sit in the chair at the far edge of the patio, the one just outside the pool of light cast by the motion-sensitive security light affixed over the sliding glass door, and dial her number. _

_Her voice was like a balm, soothing his raw spots. For the nearly three hours a night they spent talking, he could push away the demons that had taken up residence inside his head. He could almost forget that even in sunny San Diego, he felt as though he had been plunged into perpetual darkness. It was the other 21 hours of the day that were the problem, when the pain was so sharp he could hardly breathe and he had the overwhelming need to crawl out of his own skin._

"'_Night, Drake. I'll see you tonight."_

"_I hope so."_

"_I promise."_

_Drake pressed the END button with his thumb and leaned his head against the back of the chair, staring up wearily at the sky. It was dark for a city sky, but not nearly as dark as he'd seen it the time they went camping in the Santa Monica Mountains. Back then he had seen nothing but endless stars and he had spent nearly an hour searching for the Big Dipper. When he couldn't find it, he'd given up trying and instead had created his own star pictures. Now, all he could see were the dueling beams of spotlights from downtown nightclubs playing against the lightened sky like real-life Bat Signals and a thin layer of fast-moving clouds skimming off the Pacific towards some faraway destination. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the stars._

_After a moment, his heavy eyelids drooped shut. _

"Promises are just lies by another name."

_His eyes flew open at the sound of those words, expecting to see Mr. Bradford standing right in front of him, that feral look in his eyes. Of course, he had only imagined them, and he knew instantly it was Maddie's parting words that had prompted that particular memory. It never took much to bring the memories on. They were always just right there, crowding behind his eyes, waiting for the opportunity to present themselves. That was the worst part, he decided. The memories. They latched onto his brain like leeches and swam through his blood like a legion of viruses, spreading pestilence to every cell. _

_They slowly devoured him from the inside out._

_Standing, he stood on wobbly knees and walked to the glass doors. But instead of going inside, he just stared through the glass into the house. _

_His father had lived here before fate had taken him away. Drake had a vague memory of sitting atop his father's shoulders as they walked through the empty house, his parents chatting eagerly below him, his mom darting excitedly to every corner of the empty living room, smiling widely and laughing. But that memory was always tempered by the one of him sitting under the dining room table watching the legs of people dressed in black pass by, listening as they spoke softly to his mother who was sitting in a chair at the end of the table, her ankles crossed neatly next to him. He remembered the boxes still waiting to be unpacked piled along the walls and the way his mother's smile no longer reached her eyes._

_His sister had been born here, having arrived unexpectedly nearly a month ahead of schedule. Drake had been five years old for a little over a month and had climbed on a chair in the kitchen to dial 9-1-1 as his mom watched wild-eyed from a puddle on the floor, clutching her belly protectively as she assured him everything was going to be alright. He had been so scared he could barely talk, had only been able to tell the lady on the phone, "The baby's coming!" before he climbed down and knelt beside his mom, pushing her sweaty hair off her forehead. When the man with the bushy mustache told him he had a baby sister, he smiled._

_His mother had carved a life out of her loneliness here, hiding from her kids the places inside of her that could only be filled by the kind of love they just couldn't provide, until complete happiness had arrived one evening in the form of a man named Walter Nichols. He had stood nervously on their front porch with his perfectly combed TV hair and a bunch of wilted daisies clutched tightly in his left fist. Beside him had stood an oversized geek with a goofy grin and a fondness for bear hugs Drake would later learn to crave. _

_Two families had blended into one here, into a sort of hodge-podge greater than the sum of its parts. And he had grown to love his place in it._

_This place had been his home for nearly as long as he could remember, but now he felt like he didn't belong here. It was like the whole thing had shattered and he was the piece that didn't fit neatly back into place._

_He refocused his eyes so he could see his reflection on the glass, superimposed on the empty living room behind it like a double exposure, and it suddenly seemed so fitting._

_He was standing on the outside, looking in on what used to be his life._

* * *

"_Stop!" Drake yelled, the music coming to a sudden, discordant halt. He turned on Devon angrily. "How many times do I have to tell you, man? It's A minor then E minor 7__th__. Not E minor," he told him, demonstrating fluidly on his own guitar. "Playing E minor ruins the feel of the melody."_

"_Dude," Devon said, holding up his hands. "Chill."_

"_No," Drake spat. "I will not chill. We're going on in –" he looked at the clock hanging on the wall over Devon's father's worktable in the garage " – two hours and fifteen minutes and it has to be right."_

_Devon's face twisted in annoyance. "You're the one who called off practice on Wednesday, man," he retorted. He looked Drake up and down. "You look healthy enough to me."_

_Drake became very still and his fingers convulsed around the fingerboard of his guitar, his fingertips turning white at the pressure. "Just play the song like I fuckin' wrote it, alright?" he said slowly between his teeth._

_Holding Drake's gaze for a few more seconds, Devon finally relented, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath, "What the hell's the matter with him?"_

_Forcing himself to take two deep breaths, Drake turned back to the microphone and closed his eyes. _Keep it together,_ he admonished himself. "From the second verse," he said after a moment. "Okay?" Then he counted it off. This time, no one missed a single chord._

"_Good," Drake said when the song was over. "That's good." He didn't look at them._

_He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need a break," he said wearily, slipping the guitar strap over his head and leaning the instrument against the amplifier. "I'll be back in a couple minutes." Then he disappeared into the house, the guys staring after him curiously._

"_Sounds good," Josh said as Drake walked into the kitchen. He was sitting at the bar reading the newspaper._

"_Thanks," Drake said in passing, continuing on. There was a half bathroom just around the corner next to the stairs and he made a beeline to it, stepping inside and locking the door behind him._

_He leaned against the door and pressed his hands to his eyes. He was exhausted to his bones and he felt as though every one of his nerve endings was raw and exposed. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He shouldn't have to remind himself how to do it._

_Sliding to the floor, he leaned against it, concentrating on breathing. Propping his elbows on his knees, he cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes._

_He was falling apart._

_A soft knock on the door snapped him back to reality. "Drake?" Josh's voice. "You okay in there?"_

"_Uh, yeah," Drake responded, startled, his own voice sounding foreign to him. "I'll be right out." He had no idea how long he'd been in there._

_Pushing himself up, he walked to the sink and stared at his reflection in the wrought iron mirror. _Shit,_ he thought as he looked at his red eyes. He bent to splash some water on his face, reaching blindly for the blue hand towel hanging from a ring next to the sink. Pressing the soft terrycloth to his face, he straightened, studying his reflection again as he lowered the towel. His eyes were still red._

_Crap._

_He slipped the towel back through the ring and reached for the door, at the last second remembering to flush the toilet. He reached over and pressed on the lever, then opened the door, the little push lock popping up as he turned the knob._

_Josh was standing outside the door, leaning along the edge of the credenza next to the stairs. A giant arrangement of silk flowers framed his head. "You know, you're supposed to wash your hands _after_ going to the bathroom," he quipped, standing._

_Drake ducked his head, avoiding eye contact. "At least I wash mine," he said, looking at Josh out of the corner of his eye as he turned back towards the kitchen, "Mr. I-only-turn-on-the-water-to-make-it-sound-like-I'm-washing-my-hands."_

"_Hey," Josh said, laughing, following him back through the kitchen. "Only sometimes," he admitted. "When I don't have any lotion."_

_Drake snorted as he pushed open the door that led to the garage._

"_What?" Josh said defensively. "I happen to have dry skin."_

"_Uh-huh."_

"_What took you so long?" Scotty asked from behind the drum set when Drake walked back into the garage. His drumsticks were taped in alternating stripes of black and red electrician's tape and he was tapping them against the rim of the snare drum – a nervous habit he'd had since Drake had known him._

"_Diarrhea," Drake deadpanned._

_Devon, Scotty, and Tucker, the bass player, exchanged glances. Then Scotty said, "Too much information, man," a sour expression on his face._

"_You asked," Drake said, picking up his guitar and ducking his head through the strap._

"_Well I hope whatever was up your ass is gone now," Devon replied, only half-joking._

_Drake wasn't amused. "The only thing up my ass is your sloppy playing, Devon."_

"_Blow me," Devon spat._

"_Guys," Tucker interjected. He was the quiet one, usually content to go with the flow. But he also didn't like conflict; Drake knew he saw enough of it at home. "Let's not argue, okay? We're all a little nervous."_

_Drake and Devon exchanged another hostile glance but didn't say a word. "Let's go over the song order," Drake said._

"_Why?" Devon asked, a hard edge in his voice. "It's the same as always."_

_Gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, Drake fought to keep his temper from flaring. "I'm changing it," he said evenly. "We're leading off with 'Makes Me Happy' instead of 'Found A Way'."_

" '_Makes Me Happy' is too new," Devon protested. "We should start off with something older. Something the audience is more familiar with."_

_Drake continued as if he hadn't heard him. "Then 'Hollywood Girl', then 'Girl Next Door', then 'Don't Preach', then 'Down We Fall', then 'Circles'. We'll end with 'Found A Way'."_

"_Hold up," Devon replied, waving his hands in the air in front of him. " 'Found A Way' should be first. We always play it first."_

_Drake met his eyes evenly, feeling his anger tingle just below his skin. He was just waiting for Devon to say something else to contradict him. "Tonight we're playing it last."_

"_Why?"_

_Drake curled his hands into loose fists. "Because I said so."_

"_Who died and crowned you king?"_

"_Guys," Tucker said again. _

_Scotty tapped on the rim of his snare drum, the sound grating on Drake's already frayed nerves. "They're my songs," Drake said slowly. "I wrote the music. I wrote the lyrics. I can put them anywhere I want."_

"_I know where you can put them," Devon said, pulling his guitar over his head._

_Drake did the same thing, suddenly itching for a fight, somewhere to release all the anger that was suffocating him._

_Finally, Josh, who had been watching the entire display from the doorway, intervened. "Time out," he said, making a 'T' with his hands, holding his cell phone in one of them. "Drake. Mom's on the phone for you." He tried to look sheepish as he wiggled his phone in the air. "She says it's an emergency. Got a sec?"_

_A muscle twitched in Drake's jaw and he had to make an effort to uncurl his fists. "Yeah," he finally said, dragging his eyes to Josh. "Coming." He set his guitar down and followed Josh into the kitchen, holding his hand out for the phone._

"_What's wrong with you?" Josh hissed under his breath as he closed the door behind them._

_Drake looked at him evenly. "Mom's not on the phone, is she?"_

"_Drake," Josh continued. "What was that out there?"_

_Drake shrugged. "Just a bit of a disagreement." His hands were trembling with unspent anger and he shoved them in his pockets._

" '_A bit of a disagreement'?" Josh asked incredulously. "Seems to me you wanted to rip each other's heads off."_

_Drake just shrugged again, not saying a word._

_Josh opened his mouth, closed it again. "If there was something bothering you," he finally said, his voice nearly a whisper, "you'd tell me." He gave Drake a pointed look. "Right?"_

_It took a second, but Drake finally replied, "Don't I always?"_

_Josh pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I don't know," he responded. "Do you?"_

_Drake held his brother's eyes for several seconds. "Look, Josh. I'm sorry about in there," he said, nodding in the direction of the garage. "I'm just a little stressed." _And that, folks, was the understatement of the millennium,_ he thought._

"_Drake," Josh said and Drake could tell there was something else he wanted to say. But he didn't. Instead, he nodded in acquiescence. "It's alright."_

"_I'll go apologize to Devon," Drake replied, turning towards the door. "Then we should get going." He looked at the digital clock on the microwave behind Josh's head. "We're going on in an hour and a half."_

_Josh nodded. "Sure."_

_Drake had his hand on the doorknob when he heard Josh say behind him, "Devon's right, you know. You should lead off with 'Found A Way'."_

_Turning, Drake gave him a weak smile. "Yeah? Well, what do you know?"_

_Josh smiled back. It was a familiar routine for them and his response came easily. "I know what I know."_

_Drake nodded. "Thanks."_

"_For what?"_

_But Drake was already gone._

* * *

_If the number of cars in the lot and parked along the side streets was any indication, there was quite a crowd inside. Josh pulled up behind Scotty's van in the loading zone behind the club. The ride to Clancy's had been a quiet one, with only the radio to keep Josh company. Drake had stared out the passenger window the entire time, with Josh sneaking glances at him at every stop light._

"_I'm gonna go help the guys unload," Drake replied, pushing open the door._

"_I'll get your guitars," he heard Josh say behind him as he stepped out of the car and stood up, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. He closed the door with a thud and took a deep breath. The combined odors of rotting garbage, motor oil, and fried food met his nose._

"I can't let you go."_ Drake's fingers pressed against the glass and he stared unseeing at the back of the open van in front of him. He wished that voice would stop playing in his head like a broken record._

"_You gonna help or are you just supervising?"_

_The voice was coming from his right and Drake turned his eyes in that direction. Devon was standing there, holding Scotty's snare drum, his gray eyes boring into Drake's._

"_Sorry," Drake muttered, walking to the van._

_He felt a hand on his shoulder and swallowed hard. "Are you sure you're alright, man?" Devon asked him softly, leaning in so he wouldn't be overheard. Out of all his bandmates, Drake was closest to Devon. "You've been acting weird."_

_Drake felt himself nodding, his head bouncing on his neck like a bobble-head doll. He reached for the hi-hat cymbal. "Just a little nervous, I guess." He shrugged, his shoulders tense beneath Devon's hand. "I'll be okay." If only he actually believed it._

"_Alright," Devon said, giving Drake's shoulder a squeeze before letting his hand drop. "Don't sweat it, man. It's gonna be great." Then he walked off, whistling the chorus of 'We Will Rock You'._

* * *

"_Hey, Tuck," Drake said._

_Tucker looked up from tuning his A string and met Drake's eyes. His face was impassive beneath the sandy blond fringe of his bangs. "What's up?"_

"_Nothing," Drake replied. "I'm just checking in on everyone. You know, making sure we're all ready to go."_

_Tucker nodded. "I'm ready, boss." He always called Drake 'boss'. Drake had tried to break him of the habit, but it had stuck._

"_Good." Drake smiled faintly at him. "Good."_

"_Everything alright with you and Devon?" Tucker asked him._

_Drake smirked. "Yeah," he replied. He waved his hand abstractly between them. "Creative differences."_

_Tucker smiled knowingly. "Sure, boss." Drake saw Tucker's hazel eyes focus somewhere over Drake's right shoulder._

"_Your groupie is here," Tucker said, pointing with his chin in the direction he was looking._

_Drake had a sudden vision of the mysterious no-name girl who seemed to pop up everywhere, kiss him, then run off. He didn't turn around. "What does she look like?" he asked, his lips barely moving._

_Tucker took a second before answering. "Shy," he finally said._

_Drake felt himself smile. It definitely wasn't No-Name Girl, then. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Maddie standing at the edge of the stage. She smiled when they made eye contact._

_Removing his guitar from his shoulder, he leaned it against an amp and walked over to her, kneeling in front of her. "I was worried you wouldn't show," he said._

_She gave him a look, fumbling with the cap of a bottle of water. "I promised, didn't I?"_

"_I seem to remember something to that effect," he said, smiling._

"_Well, it wasn't that long ago," she said, laughing. "You should remember." She cast a look over her shoulder. "Good crowd." She turned back to him. "There were so many cars, my dad had to drop me off down the block."_

"_You didn't drive?"_

"_I wanted to. My dad wouldn't let me." She grinned. "He doesn't trust rock star types."_

_Drake cracked a smile. "Don't tell me. He listens to polka music."_

_She shook her head. "Baroque," she replied. Then she rolled her eyes. "Not Classical, mind you. Baroque. He likes the harpsichord."_

_Drake laughed. "Harpsichord, huh? I'll admit, there's not a whole lot of that in rock music."_

_A tall man with wide shoulders and biceps as big around as Drake's neck approached them. "Five minutes," he said to Drake._

"_Thanks."_

_When he passed, Maddie said, "I'll let you get ready."_

"_Thanks for coming."_

_She just smiled. "See you later. Good luck." She turned to go, then suddenly turned back to him. "I almost forgot," she said, holding the bottle of water out to him. "I got you some water. You can't sing if your mouth is dry."_

_He smirked, taking the bottle. "I don't know," he quipped. "I might sound better that way."_

_He stood up, watching her as she walked away. _

"_Who was that?" Josh asked suddenly from below him._

_Drake watched as she found a seat at the bar off to the right, smiling when he saw her wave at him. "A girl," he said absently, finally tearing his eyes away to look at Josh._

"_No, really?" Josh said. "I couldn't tell. What's her name?"_

"_Drake! Stop yapping and get over here!" Devon yelled._

_Drake smirked at Josh. "Duty calls," he said, raising his eyebrows wearily. "Wish me luck." Another cue, another routine between he and Josh._

_Josh smiled. "You don't need it."_

"_See ya." Drake walked over and picked up his guitar, looping the strap over his head. "Ready, guys?" he asked his bandmates. When they nodded their assent, he turned around and walked up to the microphone._

_The man with the bulging biceps was introducing them. Drake closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, letting the hum of the crowd wash over him._

_He could do this._

* * *

_The sting of sweat in his eyes. The feel of the strings beneath his callused fingertips. The touch of the microphone against his lips. These were the things he focused on as they went through their set. And when the last note of the last song ended, he let the roar of the crowd settle into his bones as he stood there, chest heaving, fingers tingling. His body thrummed with a familiar vibration – the thump of adrenaline in his blood._

_It didn't last. It never did, but this time it disappeared quicker than usual, and a nearly debilitating wave of fatigue hit him so hard his knees almost buckled. He reached out for the amp, slumping against it for support. The sweat covering his body felt cold against his skin and the floor beneath his feet swam before his eyes._

_There was a hand on his arm. "Hey, man. You okay?"_

_Drake nodded weakly, looking up to see Devon standing in front of him. Two Devons, actually, and it took a second for his eyes to focus them into one person. "I just need a minute," he managed between breaths, his lungs burning. "Just give me a minute." He held up his right hand weakly, but it felt too heavy and he let it drop back down. His guitar suddenly felt like it weighed a ton and he struggled with the strap._

_Josh was suddenly next to him. "Let me help you with that," he heard his brother say as he grabbed the guitar and lifted it off Drake's body._

"_Thanks," Drake muttered thickly, looking up at him. He tried to crack a smile, but his mouth wouldn't work._

"_You look pale," Josh said, his brow wrinkled in concern._

"_I'm fine." At Josh's expression, Drake added, "Really."_

"_How many fingers am I holding up?" Josh asked, wiggling four fingers in front of Drake's face._

_Drake's breathing was finally returning to normal and he managed a smirk. "How many am _I _holding up?" he retorted, flipping Josh off._

_Josh grinned. "Yup, he's fine, everyone," he said loudly, chuckling. "No need to worry."_

"_Where's the restroom?" Drake asked, standing shakily._

"_Down the hall to the left of the bar," Josh explained, pointing. "Need some help?"_

_Drake gave him a look. "I think I can handle it by myself."_

_Josh laughed. "Just checking," he said. "You know I'm here to lend a hand wherever it's needed."_

"_Please stop talking now," Drake told him and heard Josh laughing again as he turned away._

_Usually he'd just hop off the stage, but this time he sat down on the edge and scooted off, his boots softly hitting the hard floor. As he made his way to the restroom, he heard words of encouragement and congratulations from people he passed._

_Maddie approached him as he neared the bar. "Are you alright?"_

_He was getting really sick of people asking him that. "Yeah," he said, looking at her. "I just felt a little dizzy for a second. But I'm fine now."_

"_It was a great show, by the way," she told him, smiling._

"_Thanks."_

"_You want something to drink?" She motioned with her head to the bar._

_His throat felt dry. "Water?"_

"_Sure," she said. "Be right back."_

"_I have to use the restroom," he told her. "I'll meet you at the bar."_

"_Okay," she said cheerfully, disappearing into the sea of people._

_Pushing his way through the crowd, Drake entered the restroom, which was surprisingly empty and surprisingly clean. Bypassing the urinals, he entered one of the two stalls and shut the door behind him, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. He closed his eyes, enjoying the relative quiet, the crowd noise reduced to a muted roar. His pulse throbbed in his temples._

_He stood there for a few moments, listening to the intermittent noise bleed through the open doorway as people entered and exited the restroom. But then the pressing need of his nearly bursting bladder shook him out of his reverie. Flushing the toilet with his foot, he exited the stall and walked to the sink. He was alone in the restroom._

_His face stared back at him from the mirror. Josh was right; he did look pale. He pressed his fingers to the dark circles under his eyes and dragged his hands down, his face contorting from the pressure. "Loser," he muttered disgustedly as he bent to wash his hands, finishing off by throwing some water on his face._

_The restroom door opened and closed behind him, the crowd noise rising and falling in volume. Shoes scuffed against the tile._

_Standing, Drake looked at his reflection again, his breath catching in his throat as his fingers closed around the edge of the basin. Meeting his gaze in the mirror was a pair of blue eyes that haunted his dreams every night._

"_Hello, Drake," Mr. Bradford said._

_Drake felt his heart thudding against his ribs, felt the air burning in his lungs. _This isn't happening. I'm imagining this.

"_I watched you play. You did a great job."_

Move,_ his brain told him. But he couldn't; he was fused to his spot on the floor. He tore his eyes away from the mirror and looked down, staring at the drain. He felt the water drip down his face. Or was it sweat? He couldn't tell._

"_I've been wanting to talk to you. To apologize."_

_Drake wanted to cry out at that, but he couldn't speak. He wished someone else would come in the restroom._

"_I know you've been avoiding me, but if I could just explain…"_

_Drake couldn't believe what he was hearing. _What is there to explain? _he wanted to scream. _You raped me.

_And there it was – the one thing his brain had refused to process. A strangled cry burst from his throat and he bit it back painfully._

"_Drake –"_

_The door opened behind them and the interruption allowed Drake to break away. Without looking up, he pushed roughly past the man coming in and escaped into the hallway, leaving Mr. Bradford staring after him._

_He felt a hand grab his arm and he jerked it away, spinning around angrily. Mr. Bradford stood staring down at him, his eyes wide, his pupils large in the dim light. The hallway was crowded and people parted around them like a stream around a stone. No one was paying any attention to them at all._

_A heady mixture of anger and fear coursed through Drake and he shook with the force of it. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, finally finding his voice. But it sounded strained and raw. He felt the anger coloring his cheeks._

"_I had to see you," Mr. Bradford answered. "I'm sorry." He sounded desperate and hurt, like a lovesick puppy. It made Drake want to throw up. "But you won't return my calls."_

_Eighteen text messages. That was how many the man had sent him since Wednesday. Drake hadn't read any of them._

_As Mr. Bradford looked at him, Drake felt a coldness seep into his skin. It gripped him in an icy clutch that stole his breath, slowly squeezing the life out of him._

I'm dying._ The thought sprang unbidden to the front of his mind, like it had just been waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. _This is what it feels like.

_Tears stung his eyes and he looked away. "You're killing me," he whispered._

* * *

_He was going to do it, he decided. He just didn't know how yet._

_He sat behind the wheel of the Honda, staring through the windshield at his house. It was dark and quiet. He wondered if Josh was still awake, waiting up for him._

* * *

_She was sitting at the bar, waiting for him as promised, two sweating bottles of water on the bar in front of her. He called her name and she turned to him, a smile on her lips. But then she looked at him, saw something in his eyes, perhaps, and her smile vanished. He asked the question before he could stop himself._

_"You wanna go somewhere?"_

* * *

_His eyes came to rest on the garage door. It would be so easy, he thought. All he would have to do was pull inside the garage and shut the door. Leave the engine running. Breathe deeply. Should the windows be up or down? Probably down. That would make more sense. But he wasn't sure._

* * *

_The guys smiled knowingly at him when he approached the stage and asked Josh if it was alright if he took the car. Josh protested, but not vehemently, and said he would take care of Drake's guitars and catch a ride with Scotty. Drake patted his pockets and looked at Josh and Josh dug out his own keys and passed them to Drake with a good-natured eye roll._

_"Be careful," Josh advised him._

* * *

_The Jacobsons' sprinklers ticked on next door. It was two o'clock in the morning, he realized. It was Sunday. And there were 22 hours of it left._

_He could hardly bear the thought of it._

* * *

_The ride was quiet. He felt her watching him from the passenger's side. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but he was afraid to speak. Afraid if he opened his mouth, everything would come tumbling out. All the ugliness. All the pain. All the darkness that lived inside him. And he didn't want her to see any of it. Not her._

_So he concentrated on the road and gripped the steering wheel so tightly in his fingers that they started to feel cold._

* * *

_He stood at his front door and looked through the ornate glass. He couldn't make out any shapes, but a faint blue glow told him the nightlight in the kitchen was on. The keys in his hand felt heavy and he looked down at them. If he didn't know any better, he would swear they belonged to a girl; he counted four key chains._

_Finding the house key in the tangle, he inserted it smoothly into the lock and turned it, pushing open the door._

_Maybe he'd shoot himself._

* * *

_They were sitting along the low wall of the Mission Beach boardwalk, looking out at the surf. The cement felt cold through his jeans. The water crashed roughly against the shore because of the wind, which was blowing right into their faces. It wasn't a strong wind, but it was enough to make her shiver. He felt her trembling next to him, saw her hug herself out of the corner of his eye._

_He wished he had a jacket or something to offer her, but he didn't. He had nothing to offer her at all._

_"Aren't you cold?" she asked him, and he heard her teeth chattering._

More than you'll ever know._ "A little," he told her, his voice carried away by the wind. He turned his head to look at her. "You wanna go?"_

_She scooted closer so she was pressing against him. He felt her shoulder against his. He felt their knees touching. She looked up at him and smiled. "No," she said. "You can keep me warm."_

_He turned away at that, closed his eyes. He felt the tears wet against his lashes, but the wind dried them before they fell._

* * *

_All he'd have to do was press the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger. Then it would all be over. He wouldn't have to think about it anymore. He wouldn't have to think about anything._

_But then he had a sudden flash of his brains all over the walls and shuddered. No, he couldn't do that. It would be too messy. Besides, he didn't have a gun anyway._

_He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with tap water, and took a long drink. It tasted metallic on his tongue. Like blood. He took another drink and looked out the window. A light came on upstairs in the house across the street. The Johnsons. A silhouette passed in front of the window. Maybe Davey had had a nightmare and his mom had come in to comfort him._

I hope you never have nightmares you can't wake up from,_ Drake thought, tipping the glass to his lips, taking another long drink._

_As the water slid coolly down his throat, a single word popped into his head._

_Pills._

* * *

_"Have you ever wished you could be someone else?" he asked her after a long silence._

_He felt her turn to look at him, but he didn't look back. He kept his eyes on the ocean._

_"When I was little I used to wish I was Snow White," she said and laughed._

_"No," he said. "I mean, have you ever looked in the mirror and hated who you saw staring back at you?"_

_She was silent for a long moment and he knew he'd scared her a little. "Drake," she finally said. "Is something wrong?"_

_He didn't answer her. Sliding off the wall, he landed softly in the sand and felt his feet sink into it. He looked up at her. "Come on."_

_She met his gaze, her question still in her eyes. Then she gave him a crooked smile and slid off the wall, using his shoulder to steady herself._

_They started to walk._

* * *

_He pulled open the cupboard by the oven and peered inside. Vitamins. Could you overdose on vitamins? Probably not. He pushed them aside. Tylenol. He grabbed the bottle, the pills rattling around inside, and stared down at it. How many would it take? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? He pressed on the cap and twisted it off, dumping the contents into his palm. The red and yellow tablets clicked against each other as he counted them. Thirty-seven. That was probably enough._

_He pictured himself swallowing them a few at a time. Five then ten then fifteen, until they were all gone. What would happen? Probably nothing, in the end. He'd just throw them up before they killed him._

_Carefully, he poured them back into the bottle, the sound like tiny hailstones against the plastic, and replaced the cap, placing the bottle back in the cupboard._

_Sleeping pills. That was what he needed. Take a handful of them and go to sleep and not even realize you've stopped breathing. Were there any in the house? He didn't know. But he could buy some. He'd buy a couple boxes of them. The blue ones he'd seen on TV. The ones that looked kinda like drops of water. He'd pop each one out of the blister packs until they laid in a pile on his bed. Then he'd swallow them one at a time, washing them down with a big glass of water. Or milk. No, chocolate milk. Then he'd crawl under his blankets and wait for sleep to come, let it take him over as the world went fuzzy._

_Then he remembered hearing somewhere that people's bladders emptied when they died. He'd probably wet the bed._

_He didn't want Josh to find him like that._

* * *

_The sea spray felt cool against his face and he could taste the salt on his lips. They were walking along the shore, on the harder, wet sand that molded to their shoes, creating distinct footprints along their path. The vague outlines of other footprints were visible as well, but the people who left them were gone. They were alone on the beach, but voices drifted on the wind from the boardwalk, where the restaurants were still open. The glow from the neon lights illuminated the beach, making the silicate sand sparkle. A sliver of moon hung above them, periodically obscured by clouds skimming across the sky._

_He felt Maddie slip her hand into his. Instead of jerking his hand away, he surprised himself by curling his fingers around her palm. It felt soft and warm against his own. He looked over at her. The wind had tugged a few strands loose from the barrette she was using to hold her hair in place; she kept tucking them behind her ear._

_"We should probably go back," he said, stopping. He let go of her hand._

_She stopped and turned to look at him. "Why?"_

_"It's late."_

_"Not very." She walked up the beach a little, onto the dry sand. She plopped down, patting the sand next to her. "Come on," she said, smiling. "Sit with me."_

* * *

_Josh would find him. He knew it in his bones. Somehow, it seemed fitting. Josh had always been there for him in life. Why not after? _

_That was why it had to be neat. Had to be clean. He didn't want Josh to have to see what was left of him spattered across the walls or pooled underneath him. He could already picture the look on his brother's face – the huge eyes, the open mouth, the trembling lips. Would he scream? Would he cry? Or would he be angry that he'd been left to clean up after Drake's mess one more time?_

_Maybe Josh would hate him. But that was okay, he decided. He deserved it._

_He walked into the living room. It was dark except for the light coming in from the back window. He walked over to it and looked out. Off to his left was the patio, where there wouldn't be any more late-night phone conversations to coax him back from the ledge. Those were over now. He'd seen to that._

_His breath hitched in his throat, but he gritted his teeth against it, pressing his hands against his eyes. He wasn't going to cry. He didn't have time. He needed to think._

_He had a decision to make._

_Pulling his hands away, he took a deep breath, then another. He blinked his eyes until the window seat came into focus below him. He wrinkled his forehead in confusion. Coiled on the seat was what looked, in the dim light, like a snake. Except it was knobby along its length instead of smooth._

_He reached for it. It was a thin piece of rope and when he let it uncoil, it was about three feet in length. He pulled the rope slowly across his left palm, feeling the roughness of it against his skin, and realized what the knobs were. At several inch intervals all along its length were different types of knots._

_Then he remembered. Josh had been practicing tying various knots so he could teach them to Megan's Campfire Kids troop. Drake grabbed the rope tightly in each hand and tugged in opposite directions. It felt strong. _

_He wondered if it could hold his weight._

* * *

_She pointed to the horizon. "See those lights?" she asked. "That's a cruise ship."_

_His eyes trailed to where she was pointing. "How can you tell?"_

_"Cargo ships don't have that many lights on their sides." She sighed, watching it for a second. "Where do you think it's going?"_

_He stared at it. "Somewhere far away from here," he replied._

_Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn so she was facing him, saw her brush the hair out of her face. But he didn't look at her._

_"You can tell me," she finally said._

_He felt his throat tighten and he swallowed hard against it. "Tell you what?"_

_She touched his arm. "What's wrong."_

_He forced himself to look at her, to keep his face impassive. "Nothing's wrong," he said._

_She pressed her lips together. "It's just…" she said, letting her hand drop. "You seem so sad."_

_He looked away at that, his eyes flitting to the horizon. The ship looked like it hadn't moved at all. "I'm fine," he whispered, but even he knew it didn't sound convincing._

_"Drake."_

_There was something about the way she said his name that broke him. A cry tore from his throat before he could stop it and he ducked his head, covering it with his arms. He suddenly couldn't stop shaking._

_He flinched when he felt her touch him and he jerked away, his hands sinking into the soft sand as he pushed himself up. "Don't," he said, walking a few steps away, to the boundary where the wet and dry sand met. The few tears that had fallen felt cold against his skin and he wiped roughly at them as he looked out at the water._

_He heard her stand up behind him, heard her brush the sand off her hands. Then suddenly she was next to him. "Talk to me," she said, and he could hear the note of pleading in her voice._

_The voices from the boardwalk had died away, leaving only the sounds of the wind and the waves. He didn't say anything for a long time, finally deciding to share the only truth he could put a voice to. _

_"I'm not the person you think I am," he told her._

* * *

_He walked into the laundry room and opened the door that led to the garage, feeling along the inside wall for the light switch. Flipping it on, he squinted at the onslaught of bright light._

_When his eyes adjusted, he looked up. There weren't any exposed beams he could loop a rope over, but there was something just as useful: the tracks for the garage door. He walked further into the garage, his boots tapping softly against the cement floor, and stood under one of the tracks, looking up at it._

_It looked sturdy enough. And if he stood on a chair…_

_He looked down at the knotted rope in his hand. It wasn't long enough, he decided. Not even if he untied all the knots. He needed a longer piece. He looked around the garage. Josh must've gotten it from somewhere, he reasoned. He just had to find it._

_In the corner stood Walter's toolbox. It was one of those big red ones with lots of drawers. He'd never understood why Walter needed so many tools; he wasn't very handy. But there it stood._

_He walked over to it. He knelt down, starting at the bottom where the deeper drawers were and pulling open the bottom one. He was stopped short. Yarn. Tons of it. In every color imaginable. Blue and red and orange and green and one that was all those colors combined. He pushed it shut and opened the next one. Knitting needles. Big ones, small ones, medium ones. They rattled together hollowly, all in a jumble. He picked one up, hefted it in his hand. Too light, he thought. It would probably snap in half before it pierced anything vital._

_He dropped it back into the drawer with a _ting _and continued on, drawer after drawer, until he reached the third one from the top. _

_That was when he saw it. _

_He reached a trembling hand for it and tightened his fingers around it. It felt cool against his palm. He hefted it. It felt solid, too. The rope slipped from his other hand, falling forgotten to the floor._

_He stared unblinking as he pushed the slider up with his thumb, the edge of the razor blade peeking out of the top, and his heart thudded wildly against his chest._

Yes,_ he thought. _Yes.

* * *

_"I don't understand," she said and he heard her voice quiver._

_But he'd already said too much. "Let me take you home." He turned, started walking back in the direction they came from._

_"No."_

_He stopped at that and turned around. She was still standing in the same spot. "Maddie." _

_"I want you to talk to me." Even from several feet away and in the semi-darkness, he could see the determination in her eyes._

_He sighed. "I don't want to talk anymore," he said wearily._

_"Drake," she said, taking a step towards him. "Please."_

_He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He felt like he was unraveling, like the frayed ends of what was left of his life were twisting in the wind._

_"Yes it does," she said fiercely and she closed the distance between them until she was right in front of him. He could smell her perfume. "It does matter, Drake. It matters to me." She reached out her hand, but pulled it back before touching him. "I want to help you."_

_He almost laughed._

* * *

_He sat on the floor of the garage, bent over his lap in concentration. He was unscrewing the side of the utility knife with the Phillips head screwdriver he found in the top drawer of the toolbox. When the screw was loose, he pulled it out with his fingertips and placed it carefully on the floor beside him. Then he pried off the side of the knife. He removed the old blade – it was dull and rusty along the edges – and laid it on his knee. Then he pulled out the replacement blade nestled inside, removing it from the thin brown wrapping. He ran the tip of his index finger along the edge of the new blade and nodded in satisfaction._

_It was very sharp._

_He put the old blade where the new one had been and snapped the new blade into place. Then he carefully replaced the side of the knife and screwed it back on tightly._

_Suddenly, he was acutely aware of his pulse throbbing in his wrists and he looked down at them, the knife resting on his knee. He could see his veins running lengthwise beneath the thin skin and he brushed one wrist with the fingertips of his other hand._

_Would it hurt? Probably not for long. How long would it take before he bled to death?_

_It wouldn't have to be messy, he thought. He could do it in the bathtub, like in the movies. He could slip into a tub of hot water and open his veins and finally silence his demons once and for all._

_But then he thought about Josh walking in and finding him in a bathtub full of red water, imagined him plunging his arms in up to his shoulders to pull him out._

_He couldn't stand to think of Josh soaked to the skin with water stained with his blood. He needed something neater. _

_The shower. He could do it in the shower. That way, all the blood would be washed down the drain. _

_It would all be very clean._

* * *

_"You can't help me," he said._

_"What happened to you?" she asked him, her eyes wide. "You're not the same boy from detention."_

_God, he thought. That was when? Monday? Seemed like a lifetime ago. He looked away again, out at the water. The surf slid in, licking at his boots, but he didn't move. _

_She touched his arm and he felt her fingers press into his skin and suddenly he was back at the club and it was another person's hand on his arm. He jerked his arm from her grasp and turned away, striding down the beach. It was noisy inside his head again and he pressed his hands against his ears to make it stop. But that just made it worse._

_"Stop, Drake. Please." He barely heard the words through the static buzzing inside his skull. But he kept walking._

_"Please." Her voice sounded broken and he felt her hand on his arm again._

_He turned on her then, feeling the anger tingle beneath his skin, feeling it coil between his shoulders like a rattlesnake. "Stop touching me!" he screamed at her, grabbing her arms in a vise grip. "Leave me alone!" Then he shoved her away roughly, watching as she stumbled backwards._

_She tripped, falling into the sand. She was sprawled there, her fingers buried in the sand behind her, looking up at him with eyes wide enough to fall into. And her lips were trembling._

_"Oh God," he whispered. "Oh God."_

_She was crying now. He could see the tears on her cheeks, the tracks reflected in the light from the boardwalk. "Why are you doing this?" she asked him and he heard the fear in her voice. Fear that he put there. _

_She was afraid of him._

_"Oh God," he said again and then his knees gave out and he crumpled to the sand, the dampness soaking through his jeans._

_He wished he were dead._

* * *

_He slid the knife into his right hip pocket as he stood up. He put the screwdriver back in the top drawer of the toolbox and picked up the piece of knotted rope. As he walked back towards the laundry room, he felt strangely lighter, like a weight had been lifted from him._

_And for once, it was quiet inside his head._

_He turned off the light as he stepped into the laundry room and shut the door behind him, standing there with his hand on the doorknob as his eyes adjusted once again to the darkness._

_He wouldn't do it tonight, he decided. No, he'd wait. But not too long._

_He dropped the rope back on the window seat and walked through the living room to the foyer, double-checking to make sure the front door was locked. Then he went upstairs._

_When he opened the door to his room, he saw Josh was in bed. His brother's face was turned towards him and he felt a sudden pang of emotion so strong it nearly knocked him over._

"_I'm sorry, Josh," he whispered._

"_Drake?" Josh asked, stirring, his voice thick with sleep. He propped himself up on his right elbow and rubbed at his eyes with his left fist._

_Drake cleared his throat roughly. "Yeah. It's me."_

"_What time is it?" Josh asked through a yawn._

"_Late," Drake answered. "Go back to sleep." He walked down the steps into the room._

_He felt Josh's eyes on him. "How'd it go with what's-her-name?" Josh asked._

"_We'll talk about it later," Drake said, walking over to the desk. "I'm tired."_

_There was a pause and Drake could hear Josh move beneath his blankets, knew he had rolled over so he could see him better. Drake kept his back to him._

"_Everything okay?"_

_Drake closed his eyes, fingering the outline of the knife inside his pocket. "Yeah," he said. "Everything's okay now."_

* * *

Two chapters left!

Reviews are appreciated. Thanks.


	21. Convergence

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** I believe this chapter requires a bit of explanation before you read it. When you start, it may seem a bit confusing because there are a lot of things going on that are not immediately explained and the sections alternate between present and very recent past (although they're all in present tense). This is similar to the structure used at the end of the last chapter. The later sections help explain the earlier ones. I was trying to convey chaos and suspense by structuring it this way, that's why I didn't group all the "like" sections together. **Please bear with me,** **because it will all come together in the end, I promise.**

* * *

Chapter 21: Convergence

Drake sees his eyes before anything else, sees the way they widen as they stare into his, the way the pupils slowly dilate. He feels the man's fingers digging into his arm painfully, but he can't twist away. The sound has shocked him into stillness. It's so loud, his ears are ringing, and it seems to drown out everything else.

Except for the screaming.

* * *

They've been sitting in silence for what feels like an hour after Drake stops talking, but it's only been a few minutes.

Josh meets his eyes and even in the darkness, Drake can see what he's going to say, can see the words poised on his brother's lips. "No way," he says, shaking his head as he pushes himself off the bed. The floor is solid beneath his feet, but he feels a little dizzy. He reaches out for the armoire to steady himself.

"Drake." Josh moves to get up.

Drake waves him off. "I'm okay," he says. "Just got up too fast."

Josh scoots to the edge of the bed and looks up at him. "You should tell them."

"I can't," Drake says and hates that his voice sounds hoarse. "It was hard enough telling you."

"They –"

"No."

"But…" Josh begins, but stops. He looks away for a second, down at the floor. Then he sighs. "What about the police?"

Drake nearly laughs, but suppresses it enough so it comes out more like a derisive snort. "The police," he says. "And how is that any different from telling Mom and Walter?"

"They could arrest him," Josh says, looking up again.

"Based on what?" he asks. "My word?"

"It's the truth," Josh says earnestly. Josh the Boy Scout. Josh the eternal optimist.

"Yeah, it is," Drake says. "But there's no proof."

"He nearly killed you."

Drake shakes his head. "No, Josh. _I_ nearly killed me." He steps off the platform and shuffles over to the loft, his right hand resting on one rung of the ladder.

"Because of him."

Sighing, Drake climbs up to his bed and sits heavily on the mattress. "Yeah. Because of him." He shrugs. "Because of me, too."

Josh doesn't respond and Drake looks over at him, sees him looking back. Then he crawls beneath his blanket, folding his arms beneath his head and staring at the ceiling. He knows he won't be sleeping tonight; he's almost forgotten what it feels like.

"He can't get away with it," he hears Josh say after a long moment.

_He already has,_ Drake thinks. But he doesn't say it.

* * *

He's falling.

He feels light, almost like he's floating, and he wonders for a second if he'll ever hit the ground. It all seems to be happening in slow motion.

Then the impact comes, knocking his breath loose. He tries to take a breath, but can't. There's a heavy pressure against his chest.

The sound approaches through a tunnel, getting louder and louder until it explodes across his mind like a train.

Someone's still screaming.

Is it him?

* * *

Drake sees the difference in Josh immediately in the early light of morning. He seems lighter, almost, as if knowing the truth has freed him from some sort of self-imposed prison. But Drake can also see that he carries the knowledge reluctantly, that it's hiding just below the surface, itching to reveal itself.

So when Josh looks up from tying his shoes to tell him he's going downstairs, does he want Choco Charms or Toasty O's, Drake says, "Promise me, Josh."

Josh looks momentarily confused as he asks, "What?"

"I mean it," Drake says, holding his gaze. "Promise me."

His eyes clearing, Josh nods. "I promise."

Drake's not convinced, though. Josh has never been good with secrets.

* * *

His vision is blurry and he blinks, trying to clear it. He sees stars. Real ones. He thinks, _It's nighttime._ But of course it is, he realizes. It was dark when he left the house.

Something warm is spreading across his chest and he tries to lift his hand to touch it. But his arm won't move. He tries the other one. That one's stuck, too.

He tries to turn his head, but feels dizzy and stops. His lungs burn but the pressure hasn't lessened; in fact, it feels like it's gotten worse. He still can't take the deep breath he needs.

Then he realizes something else: it's quiet.

The screaming has stopped.

* * *

Josh wants to escort Drake to all his classes like he's the new kid, but Drake insists he's okay. Yeah, he freaked out yesterday, but that was yesterday. Today is today. He'll be alright.

"I think you should ditch History," Josh says.

"Josh, I'm shocked," Drake says, trying to sound light, but he's only trying to conceal his nervousness. "I wish I had that on tape."

"I'm serious."

"I know. But he's not going to try anything during class."

Josh's eyes flit over Drake's right shoulder, in the direction of the corridor where Mr. Bradford's classroom is. "I hate him."

"Join the club," Drake says, not looking.

Josh is still staring, like he didn't even hear what Drake said. "He can't get away with it," he says for the second time in less than five hours. Drake can see a muscle twitch in Josh's cheek and the timbre of Josh's voice makes him feel suddenly cold.

"Josh," he says sharply, drawing his brother's attention back. When Josh's eyes focus on him, he continues. "You promised me. Remember?"

"Yeah."

"Josh."

"I got it," Josh reassures him. "I'm not gonna tell. It's just –" But he stops his words abruptly, looks away again.

Drake understands.

* * *

"Oh god. Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod."

Drake hears the words over and over, then hears something hard hit the pavement, bounce once, then skid.

"Ohgodohgodohgod."

Is he saying that? He doesn't think so; it doesn't sound like his voice.

"Ohgodohgodohgod."

Maybe he's imagining it.

But then he hears crying.

Drake opens his mouth, tries to speak. But it's hard because he can't breathe very well. "Hey…" he manages, but he barely hears it himself.

"Drake…"

His name. Someone is saying his name. But it sounds soft around the edges, more like, 'Drage'. The 'k' sound is soggy.

"…'msrry…"

_I'm sorry._

God, how he hates those words.

* * *

"It's nice to have everyone together," Walter says, like it's Christmas and all the cousins have come to visit. He looks around the dinner table, catches Drake's eyes, and suddenly looks away, down at his mashed potatoes, studying them like there may be treasure hidden inside.

Everyone shifts uneasily in their chairs.

"Ricky Brantley swallowed one of Mr. Schmidt's goldfish today in Earth Science," Megan blurts out and Drake looks over at her, meets her eyes. He can see a hint of desperation in them and it twists like a knife in his gut. She's holding her fork in her left hand, using it to move her peas around, and if he looks hard enough he can see just the edge of a Band Aid peeking out from her sleeve.

"I did that once," he says, meeting her eyes again. "In fifth grade."

"Mrs. Redmond," Audrey says.

"Yeah," Drake says, turning to look at his mother. She's looking at him, but not really. She's afraid to meet his eyes because she doesn't want to see what's behind them.

It's the closest thing to a normal conversation they've had as a family in what feels like forever.

"Was there money involved?" Josh asks, picking up the thread.

Drake smiles slightly. "A dollar," he says, looking at him. "And a kiss."

Josh rolls his eyes. "Of course."

"Stella…something," Drake continues. "I remember it was my turn to feed the fish. I'm standing at the tank sprinkling the food into the water when Stella walks up to me and says she'll give me a dollar if I swallow one of the fish."

"So, of course, you said, 'okay'."

"Uh-uh," Drake says, shaking his head. "I said, 'no way'."

"But, you just said –"

"_Unless,_" Drake says, holding up one index finger, "she kissed me, too."

"Some things never change," Walter says and Drake can almost hear him smiling.

Drake looks at him. He _is_ smiling and Drake feels his own mouth curve up slightly. They look at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Drake shrugs. "Turns out, she didn't kiss me anyway," he says, popping a bite of chicken into his mouth.

"Why not?" Josh asks.

Drake finishes chewing, then swallows. Carefully, he sets his fork down and looks around the table. Everyone is looking back at him expectantly. Even Audrey.

"She says to me," he says, " 'I don't like sushi.' "

The laughter that follows is like a symphony.

* * *

"Drage…"

And then it hits him – where he is, who he's with, what's happening. He starts struggling against the weight pressing against him as his brain finally connects it with the strained voice whispering his name.

"No…no…" He pulls at his arms, trying to free them. "No…no…"

Panic accelerates his heartbeat and it thuds inside his skull like a bass drum, pressing painfully against his temples. Tears spring to his eyes and his throat burns. He struggles beneath the body sprawled across him, holding him down.

It barely moves. Feels like dead weight.

* * *

"Can I see them?"

He'd only come in to see how she was doing, but she's turned it around on him. The hand he's using to steady himself as he kneels beside her tightens around the back of her chair. "Megan…"

"Never mind," she says quickly, turning away.

He tries to explain. "It's just that…"

"I understand," she says, closing her books and gathering up her stuff. She stands up and carries her things to her bed, where her backpack lies open on top of the blankets.

Drake stands and follows her with his eyes, but doesn't go after her. He can see the jerkiness of her movements as she shoves her books into her bag, catches the quick swipe of her hand across her eyes.

"Megan."

But she doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge him at all. She just zips up her bag angrily and walks to the door, dropping it next to the bookshelf with a muted thump. Then she stands, facing the closed door, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Do you really want to see them?" he asks her.

It takes a second, but she nods, her dark ponytail swinging slightly with the movement.

"Why?"

"Because," she says, and he can hear the tears in her voice. "Because I just want…" But she can't say anymore.

Drake feels his throat begin to close up. "Alright," he says softly and lifts his left arm up, starts to work at the tape around his wrist with his other hand.

She's suddenly in front of him and she's got her hands on his wrist. "Let me do it," she says, pushing his hand away.

Her fingers are smaller and can grip the end of the tape better and in just a few seconds, she's peeling it off slowly, careful not to hurt him. Next comes the gauze, and when she starts to peel it away, it sticks to his stitches. She stops.

"Go ahead," he says.

She hesitates, then tugs it away, revealing two very angry-looking slashes that stand out starkly against his pale skin. He hears her small, yet sharp, intake of breath.

"Pretty ugly, huh?"

Her fingers hover over them, but she doesn't touch them. "Do they hurt?"

"Sometimes," he says. "If I turn my wrist the wrong way."

"Can you…" she begins, then stops, biting her lip.

"Can I what?"

She looks up at him, her dark eyes shiny with tears. "Can you still play the guitar?"

_Jesus. _He hasn't picked up a guitar since the gig at Clancy's. His throat burns, but he tries to keep his face impassive. "I don't know," he says, his voice tight. "I haven't tried."

He feels the anger begin to warm him then, like a familiar companion. It travels through his blood and settles somewhere in his chest, drawing his mind into sharp focus.

He comes to a sudden decision.

"Megan," he says, tearing his wrist from her grasp and gripping both her shoulders. "I need a favor."

She looks at him, her big eyes holding his gaze. "Anything," she says.

* * *

"Help me." His lips form the words, but he doesn't know if he's saying them out loud. The panic thumping inside his skull is blotting out all other sound. "Help me."

He can feel the tears roll down his temples, the cries clotting in his throat like blood, and he chokes on them, spluttering incoherently.

The panic, the tears, the pressure against his chest – it's all combined to steal what little breath he has left, and the world starts to get a little fuzzy. He blinks his eyes to clear his vision, but it doesn't help.

He thinks, _I don't want to die here._

* * *

He scribbles the note hurriedly on the back of a sales flyer for Guitar World while Josh is in the shower. It's not much, doesn't explain anything, really, but Drake figures it's better than nothing.

"Josh," it says simply. "You were right. He can't get away with it." Then he signs it with the flair of the rock star he still dreams of being and folds it in half.

Guilt creeps in as he picks up his keys, but he pushes the feeling away. He doesn't have time for it. He doesn't have room for it, either. Not with everything else going on inside his head.

He pats his pockets; his cell phone resides in one, Megan's favor in the other. Then he picks up the note and steps up onto the platform, shoving it into the crease of the open Physics book on Josh's bed where he knows his brother will find it.

* * *

The weight is suddenly off him and he instinctively opens his mouth to gulp in air. But it's too much, too fast, and he starts coughing – hard, rasping spasms that cause him to roll over on his side and draw his knees up against the force of them.

After a few moments, the coughing subsides, and he hears someone say, "I don't think we should move him."

Someone else asks, "Are you hurt?"

He doesn't answer, just keeps his eyes closed and concentrates on breathing.

His right arm is curled around his stomach, but his left hand is resting palm-down on the pavement next to his head. It feels warm against his skin. And wet.

His eyes snap open and he lifts his hand to his face. He can see his fingers begin to tremble.

He's lying in a puddle.

But it's not water.

* * *

"running late. be there in 20"

That's the message waiting for him when he parks the Honda in one of the angled spaces in front of the restaurant and retrieves the phone from his pocket. He had felt the phone vibrate against his thigh on his way there and knows who it's from before he even opens it. A cold sweat breaks out across his forehead as he reads it.

The air inside the Honda suddenly feels thick and oppressive and he cranks the window down a few inches in an attempt to let in some cool air. But the late evening air is warm and brings no relief. The angry determination that had brought him there has slowly given way to fear and now he's gritting his teeth against the internal tremor that threatens to consume him.

The phone rings, the electronic melody cutting through the haze, bringing everything into sudden, sharp focus.

It's Josh, calling from his cell phone. Drake can almost hear the urgency behind the ring, can picture his brother standing next to his bed, the tiny phone pressed painfully against his right ear, Drake's scribbled note clutched tightly in his fingers, eyes wide with panic.

Drake lets it go to voicemail, sees the missed call notification pop up on the screen, counts the seconds until Josh tries again. Six. Six seconds.

When the phone begins to ring again, Drake shuts it off.

* * *

He jerks away, using his legs to propel himself across the pavement, trying to escape the edges of the sickening pool that glistens darkly in the yellow light of the parking lot. He tries to stand up, loses his balance, falls down again.

He can't stop staring at it. Bile rises, sharp and bitter, in the back of his throat.

Something suddenly blocks his vision and as he forces his eyes to focus, he sees a face. A man's face.

"Are you okay?" the man asks him, but the sound seems far away and it doesn't quite match the movement of his lips.

Drake looks down at his hand again, moves his fingers one at a time like he's ticking off silent points inside his head, then draws his palm slowly across his shirt.

But it doesn't come off. Because there's more blood on his shirt.

In fact, he's covered in it.

* * *

The glass of ice water sits untouched on the table in front of him and, not for the first time, he looks around the restaurant. The booth is in the back corner and there's no one in the booths on either side. It's private yet still public. And it's quiet, too; there shouldn't be any interference.

He can see the door from where he's sitting and his eyes flit nervously to it every few seconds. He fingers the gadget clipped to the front of his shirt halfway up his chest, hidden in the space between two buttons. Megan had given it to him when he told her he needed to record someone without their knowledge. She had produced a small gadget from her bag of tricks and handed it to him, no questions asked, telling him simply that all he had to do was push the button on the side and it would start recording.

He had nearly made the crack that if he had known she was going to be so nice to him, he'd have tried to kill himself a long time ago. But he didn't.

Forcibly, he pulls his hand away from the device, willing his hands to lie flat on the table in front of him. He's already pushed the button and he wonders if it's sensitive enough to hear his heart pounding inside his chest. He hopes not, because otherwise that sound will drown out everything else.

"Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

The question startles Drake and his right hand knocks over his water glass. Water and ice slide across the table in every direction, including over the edge and into Drake's lap. Jumping up, he scoots out of the booth, wiping at his pants with his hands.

"Here," the waitress says, handing him a wad of napkins.

Drake takes them and presses them against the sodden denim, trying to soak up as much of the water as he can as the waitress leans across the table to clean up the rest of the spill.

"At least it wasn't coffee."

The words stop Drake cold and his fingers tighten around the clump of wet napkins in his hand.

It's him.

* * *

"It's not mine," Drake says, his voice flat.

The parking lot is awash in red and blue light and Drake feels more than sees the circle of onlookers surrounding him. The air is buzzing with the sound of hushed conversation. He's aware of the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

Off to his right, there's something he can't bring himself to look at, so he doesn't. He focuses instead on the back of the car directly in front of him. It's yellow and has a sticker on its back bumper that says, "Trees are for hugging."

"What's your name?" the man asks.

"The blood," Drake says. "It's not mine."

"I know that. I know." The man's voice sounds soothing and Drake thinks, _Walter sounds like that._ "I asked you your name."

It takes a second, but he finally says, "Drake. Drake Parker."

"Okay, Drake," the man says. "My name's Mike. I'm going to help you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Drake says, looking at him. He's wearing some sort of uniform. "You're going to help me."

* * *

"It's good to see you," Nathan says, looking at Drake unblinkingly from the other side of the table.

Drake doesn't respond to that, just stares back at him as he rubs his sweaty palms nervously against the thighs of his still-damp jeans. He hasn't been this close to the man in nearly three weeks and it makes him uncomfortable.

"When I got your message, I couldn't believe it," Nathan continues. He smiles, leans in a little. "I'd almost given up hope."

Drake reaches for the glass of water the waitress had brought just a few moments before to replace the one he spilled. It has barely begun to sweat and he wraps his lips around the straw and takes a long drink, the cold liquid sliding down his parched throat.

The smile slips from Nathan's face in the ensuing silence and he slides his left hand across the surface of the table towards Drake, stopping it halfway. "Drake," he says. "I –"

"Do you know what today is?" Drake suddenly asks him. He pushes his glass away and tucks his arm back beneath the table.

Nathan looks confused, opens his mouth to speak but closes it again without saying a word. Instead, he shakes his head.

"It's Friday," Drake says in a tone that says the answer should've been obvious.

"Yeah." But it comes out sounding more like a question than an affirmation.

"What makes Friday so special?"

Nathan doesn't reply, but his eyes widen ever-so-slightly as the realization begins to set in.

The expression warms Drake and he feels his nerves begin to subside. "Something happened to me on a Friday. Something important," he says.

A beat. Then, "Yes." Drake sees Nathan's fingers curl against the table, his knuckles showing white from the pressure.

"I tried to kill myself on a Friday."

"Yes."

"Because of you."

* * *

Drake's sitting in the back of the ambulance, staring out through the open back doors. There are orange reflective police barricades set up to keep the rubberneckers back and Drake counts four uniformed policemen standing guard behind them.

"Follow my finger with your eyes," Mike says.

"Huh?" Drake asks, turning his eyes back to the paramedic.

Mike smiles patiently. "I'm going to move my finger around and I want you to follow it with your eyes without moving your head. Okay?"

"Okay." Drake does as instructed.

"Very good."

"Now touch the tip of your nose with your right index finger."

Drake does.

"Now do the same with your left index finger."

Drake complies.

"Good," Mike says. "You don't seem to have a concussion."

"My head hurts, though."

Mike nods. "You've got a pretty nasty bump in the back." Then he grins. "You must have a pretty thick skull."

"Yeah," Drake says. "That's what everyone says."

"Drake Parker?" A new voice.

Turning his head to face the newcomer, Drake sees a man standing just outside the ambulance, looking in at him. He's tallish and slim, wearing a rumpled gray suit jacket and a hideous green tie pulled loose at his collar. A wave of salt-and-pepper hair flops over his forehead as if it's given up its fight against gravity at such a late hour.

"Your kids give you that tie?" Drake asks him.

The man smoothes his right hand over it, his smile revealing a row of even, white teeth. "Grandkids," he says. "Last Christmas."

Drake nods, but doesn't say anything more. He keeps his eyes on the man, though, watching as he removes a small spiral notebook from his right coat pocket and pulls a silver retractable pen from the spiral. He feels Mike pick up his left wrist and rest it on his knee as he begins to unbutton the cuff of his shirt.

"I'm Detective Sheridan," he says. "You feel up to answering a few questions?"

Drake hears Mike's sharp intake of breath. _Surprise,_ he thinks.

The detective looks in Mike's direction and Drake can see his dark eyes fall on the exposed bandage, the edges stained with dried blood.

"They're a matching set," Drake says as Mike continues to roll up his sleeve.

Detective Sheridan meets his eyes and there's a softness in his gaze that wasn't there before. Drake recognizes the look – a mixture of pity and sadness that chafes him. The detective writes something in his notebook, then underlines it twice, looking back at Drake. He opens his mouth to speak, but Drake cuts him off.

"Is he dead?"

* * *

"I don't want to talk about this," Nathan says, pulling his hand back towards him, curling his palms around the beige mug of coffee in front of him. He looks down at it intently, like it'll reveal the future to him.

Drake bites back the response that springs immediately to his lips. "I do," he says instead.

"Why?" Nathan asks, still not looking up, his grip on the coffee cup so tight that Drake thinks it might shatter.

"Because I can't sleep," Drake says, "without seeing your face."

Nathan looks up at that, his blue eyes wide. "Oh God." The words are barely a whisper and Drake wonders if the recorder picked them up. But it doesn't matter, anyway, because those aren't the words he wants.

* * *

The second the question leaves his lips, he remembers the sirens. There were sirens, loud and urgent; he remembers hearing them. He doesn't know how long ago it was exactly, but it wasn't too long, he thinks.

Or maybe it was hours ago.

He's not really sure; he's lost track of time.

But if he was dead, they wouldn't have bothered with the sirens. Would they?

* * *

"I ripped my stitches out, you know," Drake tells him. "So they had to tie me up."

Nathan closes his eyes, sagging slightly against the cushions. "What do you want from me?"

"The truth."

"The truth?" Nathan asks, like he doesn't comprehend. He looks at Drake again and Drake can see the desperation in the man's eyes.

_Good._ "We all have truths, Nathan," Drake says, getting satisfaction from the way the use of his first name makes Nathan flinch. He pulls his arms out from under the table, plops them heavily on the surface in front of him. He sees the waitress approaching and gives her a look, shaking his head to warn her off. When she turns around, he looks back at Nathan. "These are some of my truths," he says acidly, tugging at his sleeves until the edges of his bandages peek out of the ends. The one on his left wrist looks whiter than the other one; Megan had helped him re-wrap it the night before.

Nathan stares at them, his light eyes traveling from one wrist to the other. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't," Drake spits. "Don't ever fucking say that to me again."

He closes his eyes, taking a breath and letting it out slowly, trying to calm the anger that hums just beneath his skin.

* * *

By the time his parents see him, he's wearing a black San Diego PD t-shirt that's two sizes too big and smells like mold.

"Your parents are here," Detective Sheridan had told him a few minutes before, handing him the shirt. Drake had understood the implication and had changed quickly, stuffing his own shirt into the trash.

The look of profound worry on his mother's face morphs quickly into relief the second Drake steps through the door of the interview room Detective Sheridan holds open for him. "Mom," he says, hearing the door click softly shut behind him.

"My baby," Audrey says tearfully, her emotions propelling her towards him.

Drake lets his mother hug him and is surprised when he feels his own arms wrap tightly around her. "My baby," she says again into his neck and her breath feels warm against his skin.

"I'm okay," he tells her and his eyes focus on Walter, who's standing a few feet away next to the table, gripping the back of one of the chairs for support. He looks on the verge of collapse.

"When Josh told us you were gone…" he begins, but stops, unable to finish.

"I had to," Drake says.

Walter nods and Drake hears his mom whisper, "I love you so much."

Drake closes his eyes and tightens his arms around her. "I love you, too."

And he means it.

* * *

"I don't know what else you want me to say," Nathan says.

Drake looks up at that, staring back at him blankly. He's exhausted. Beyond exhausted, really, and his thoughts move through his mind like mud, thick and viscous, struggling to form into something coherent.

This isn't going to work, he realizes; he should've known. Nathan's going to win and there's nothing he can do about it.

His anger slides away and he suddenly feels like crying, feels the tears prick his eyes, and he presses his hands against them until tiny points of light form behind his eyelids. "I'm so tired," he says, sighing. He doesn't think he'll ever sleep again.

It's the complete lack of sound that finally draws his attention after a minute and he looks up to find Nathan staring once again at his wrists, at the bandages that are still peeking out of his cuffs, hiding the scars that will mark him forever.

"It's your fault," Drake says, liking the way the words feel on his tongue.

Nathan's Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he nods.

It's the closest thing to a confession Drake's gotten yet and he grabs hold of it with all the strength he has left.

"You hurt me."

"Yes." The word is choked.

"Say it."

A pause. "I hurt you."

"How did you hurt me?"

No answer.

* * *

He'd forgotten all about it in all the chaos, but when he went back and dug his blood-stained shirt out of the trash, there it was, still attached.

He holds it out to Detective Sheridan, who takes it from him and looks at it curiously. "What is it?"

"It's some kind of fancy recorder," Drake explains. "My sister loaned it to me. She says you just plug it into the computer and it plays."

The detective looks at it again, then turns his eyes back to Drake. "What's on it?"

"Everything," Drake says. "If it worked." He looks at his mom, then Walter, then back at the detective. He lowers his voice when he says, "He finally admitted it. What he did to me." He looks at the gadget resting in the palm of Sheridan's hand. It's covered in blood. "I hope it isn't ruined."

Sheridan nods, then closes his fingers around it. "Our computer guy can work miracles," he says, smiling slightly. "If there's anything on it to find, he'll find it."

"Thank you."

* * *

"I walk through my life like it doesn't belong to me. Like I'm just borrowing it," he says when Nathan doesn't say anything. The words are out of his mouth before he realizes he's even thought them. "Sometimes it feels like it doesn't fit and I just want to crawl out of my skin. Nothing's the same." His throat feels tight, making his voice sound strained, but he fights through it. "I just need to hear you say it, you know? Just once. You've taken what you wanted from me. Just give me this one thing. Please." Drake hates the note of pleading in his voice, but there it is. He _needs_ this.

Nathan opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Then, "I can't." He shakes his head. "I can't."

* * *

When Drake walks into the room, she's sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The lighting is harsh, a bare bulb nestled behind a metal cage that hangs directly over the table, washing it – and her – in an over-bright glow. Everything in the room is metal – the table, the chairs, the can of soda sitting next to her hands, the handcuffs that glint dully around her wrists.

She looks up when he closes the door behind him. Her blue eyes are red but dry and they appraise him closely, filling with a sadness that he knows well. She tries to smile, but can't, her lips pressing together in an expression more akin to a grimace.

He doesn't know what to do.

"Drake Parker." She says his name like she can't believe it.

He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yes, ma'am."

She flinches at that. "Please," she says. "Call me Claire. I'm not _quite _old enough to be your mother." She tries to smile again, but is only half successful.

"Claire." Drake tries the name on for size, feeling it on his tongue, remembering the day Nathan told him about her, wishing he didn't remember it at all.

"Please sit down."

He hesitates, his eyes flitting to the empty chair across from her and then back to her face. She looks back at him unblinkingly. Finally, he takes the few steps to the table and sits down, the chair's metal feet screeching loudly against the polished cement floor as he pulls it out. He rests his palms flat on the table, then thinks better of it and rests them on his lap underneath it.

The room is warm and the air is stale and Drake wonders how many criminals have sat in this same room, this same chair, breathing this exact same air. He looks away, away from her face, away from her eyes that now know too much. He focuses instead on the can of soda that sits on the table, beads of condensation pooling on the table beneath it. It's regular soda and he almost smiles; every female he knows drinks diet.

"Drake Parker," she says again. "DP." Her voice sounds faraway.

He looks at her but she's looking away, her eyes focused somewhere in her memory. Nathan was right about one thing; she is beautiful, even with the red eyes and the tear-stained cheeks and the dark rings of mascara that frame her lower lids.

"I kept trying to think of names that started with D. Debbie. Donna. Darlene. Dana. Desiree. Diana." She shakes her head and a strand of dark brown hair escapes from behind her ear, falling across her cheek. She turns her eyes back to him. "I was so blind," she says. She lifts her right hand to push the strand of hair back behind her ear, but the handcuffs force her left hand along for the ride, making the movement awkward. The clang of metal against metal sounds hollow inside the spartan room and Drake hears her breath catch at the sound.

He's not sure what she's talking about, but he doesn't ask, asks instead, "Why did you want to see me?" But the look she gets in her eyes gives him his answer.

They're both victims.

The beginnings of tears shine in her eyes and she blinks them away. She takes a deep breath, then another one, like she's trying to gather strength. "There was another boy," she says, meeting his eyes across the table. "In Minnesota."

Drake's breath catches in his throat. "Bobby," he whispers, dredging the name up from the dark part of his memory. His voice says the name, but he hears it inside his head in Nathan's. He tries not to shiver.

Claire gives him a startled look, eyes wide. "Yes," she says. "He told you?"

"Just his name," Drake says as he stares back at the sweating can on the table, watching a drop of condensation grow heavy and slide down to join the others.

"Nathan told me the boy was lying," he hears her say. "That he just wanted revenge on Nathan for failing him."

Drake closes his eyes. His eyelids feel heavy and exhaustion tugs at him.

"I believed him," she says, agony making her voice hoarse. "Because I wanted to."

"He didn't love you," Drake hears himself say and he opens his eyes, startled at his own words. Where did that come from? He looks at her, expecting anger, but there isn't any. There's only resignation in her eyes.

"He never did," she says matter-of-factly.

He brings his arms out from under the table and rests them on the surface, watching as her eyes fall to them. Her lips start to tremble, but she doesn't say anything.

"You should consider yourself lucky," Drake finally says, watching her stare at his wrists. "Believe me, you don't want love from a man like him."

She cries then, bringing her hands to her face, fingers splayed across her forehead, the chain of the handcuffs clinking softly.

Drake watches her in silence. His eyes burn with fatigue. His bones ache with it. He knows what she's feeling because he's felt it, too. Guilt. The pain of it is sharp. Sharper than a razor.

"It wasn't your fault," he tells her.

She looks up at that, her hands in midair in front of her, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. "I should've seen him for what he was," she whispers, shaking her head, her eyes wide and pleading.

Drake feels his throat tighten. "He didn't want you to see it." He hadn't seen it himself until it was too late.

She just looks at him and Drake sees something dark flash in her eyes. "I'm sorry he hurt you," she says after a long moment.

The weight of her words squeeze the air out of his lungs and he looks away, staring down at the handcuffs circling her wrists. They look heavy and he can see the redness beneath them where they've rubbed against her skin. And he suddenly realizes it's not fair. He lifts his eyes to her face, sees her still staring back at him. "You don't belong here," he says.

She smiles weakly, but it fades in an instant. "I shot him," she says simply, holding his gaze.

"He deserved it," Drake says, a crisp edge of certainty creeping into his voice.

Anger blooms behind her blue eyes. "Yeah," she replies, nodding slightly. She reaches for the can of soda with both hands, looking down at it as she turns it slowly between her palms. She seems to be debating her next words; Drake can see the thoughts flutter across her face. Finally, she sighs, like she's decided something.

"I've got sins to pay for," she tells him softly, not looking up.

Drake nods. He knows about sin. About how it can drag you below the surface until you can no longer see the sun, plunging the world into darkness. About how the need to cleanse yourself of it is so powerful that life itself pales in comparison. But there's something he needs to tell her. Something he's had to learn the hard way. He slides his hand across the table, brushing his fingertips against the back of her hand.

The gesture makes her look up and she meets his gaze across the table.

"Just make sure they're _your_ sins," he says.

* * *

Drake pushes through the front door of the restaurant, angry tears stinging his eyes. It has all been for nothing. He was so close. It's not fair. He's digging in his pocket for his keys when –

"Drake."

The voice, like it always does, stops him dead. He pulls his hand from his pocket and turns around. Nathan is on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, looking at him.

"Is it that important to you?" Nathan asks.

Drake's heart thuds against his ribs and his breathing quickens. "Yes," he says.

Nathan steps off the sidewalk and walks up to him. A couple exits the restaurant behind him and turns left, disappearing down the sidewalk.

The closer Nathan gets, the stronger Drake's urge to back away, but he grits his teeth against it and stands his ground, even when Nathan is so close Drake can feel his body heat.

"I never meant to hurt you," Nathan says.

Drake shakes his head, starts to back away. "No," he says. "That's not enough."

"Wait." Nathan reaches for him, closing his fingers around Drake's arm. "Don't go. Please."

"Then say it," Drake says, trying to ignore the heat from Nathan's hand. It feels like it's burning him.

Nathan's eyes fill with a torment so sharp it's almost painful to look at. "I…" he says, swallowing hard. "I raped you." A harsh cry tears from his throat. "God forgive me."

Drake can scarcely believe it. He actually said it, said the words. And he thinks to himself that even if it didn't record, at least _he_ would know, even if no one else does.

He's so caught up in the moment, the unbelievable relief of it, it feels as though the rest of the world has faded to black around them.

Then he hears the shot.

* * *

_VOICE-OVER GUY: Is Nathan dead? Will Drake be able to play the guitar again? These questions and more will be answered in the final chapter! _

_As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you._


	22. Signs of Life

**_TITLE:_** The Quality of Darkness  
**_SPOILERS:_** Anything from the series is fair game.  
**_DISCLAIMER:_** I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.

**_A/N:_** This is it, guys - the last chapter of what has become an epic saga of galactic proportions! It's more of an epilogue, really, a way to tie up a few loose threads. I hope you like it. THANK YOU to everyone who has followed this story from the beginning; all of your support has been so, so wonderful.

* * *

Chapter 22: Signs of Life (Epilogue)

"…three surgeries to repair all the damage," the woman is saying, though Drake is only half-listening.

He's sitting in a small conference room down the hall from the warren of offices in the San Diego County District Attorney's Office with his parents and a formidable-looking African-American woman in a dark blue suit – Assistant District Attorney Shelda Ryan. She's reading from a report she holds open in front of her, a pair of dark red reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

"The bullet," she reads aloud, "tore through the back of his right rib cage, narrowly missed his spine, ripped through his right lung, ricocheted off his fourth rib, and nicked his liver before exiting his right abdomen." She stops then, removing her glasses and looking across at Drake, setting the file down on the table. "You say you were standing in front of him when he was shot?"

Drake nods. "Yeah," he says, then corrects himself. "Yes."

She whistles softly through her teeth. "I'd say you're very lucky, then, Mr. Parker. Very lucky."

"Please," Drake says. "Don't call me that."

"You don't agree? You could've easily been hit with that bullet," she says. "If you'd been standing an inch further to your left –"

"No," Drake says. "I don't mean that." He looks away for a second, then looks back at her, his hands curling into loose fists on the surface of the table in front of him. "I mean, please don't call me Mr. Parker. That's what…" His voice trails off for a moment and he swallows. "Just call me Drake."

Ms. Ryan doesn't say anything for a moment, just presses her lips together briefly before continuing. "Alright," she says. "Drake."

The room is windowless, as if to protect the secrets revealed inside. It makes Drake feel a little claustrophobic and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Walter's sitting to his right, his mother to his left, and he can feel them looking at him when he moves.

"Drake," Ms. Ryan says, "we're going to file charges against him. But we have to wait until he's out of the hospital. Doing so right now would look like we're bullying a defenseless man." Her face hardens at the words, her lips twisting as though they taste bitter.

Drake feels himself nod, feels the warmth of his mom's hand against his left forearm. "Okay," he says.

"I promise you, Drake. We'll do our best to make sure you get the justice you deserve." The words seem a little made-for-TV to him, but they're reassuring nonetheless.

* * *

Word of Mr. Bradford's shooting spreads like wildfire through Belleview High School, the gossip mill a more effective fuel than dry tinder. Of course, despite the story in the paper and the 20-second blurb on the local nightly news, all kinds of far-fetched theories surface – it was a drug deal gone bad; it was a carjacking; it was a gang initiation; it was a case of mistaken identity.

They're all ridiculous; Drake knows that better than anyone, of course. But he plays along anyway, laughing when Devon tells him during Algebra one morning that he heard Mr. Bradford was shot by a prostitute after refusing to pay her.

He's grateful for one thing, though. Since he's only seventeen, his name wasn't mentioned at all in the media.

No one knows he was actually there.

* * *

Audrey doesn't want him to go, but Drake insists. He wants to be there for Claire. He'll never be able to explain it to his mother in a way she would ever understand, but he and Claire Hanover are forever connected. They share something no one else can possibly appreciate.

The ride to the courthouse takes place in silence and Drake, Walter, and Audrey duck into the courtroom and find seats two rows from the back, minutes before the proceedings begin. Defendants, lawyers, and spectators shuffle in and out of the courtroom in the first hour and Drake tunes most of it out.

Claire's case finally comes up. She's escorted in by the bailiff, a rather petite-looking woman with a large handgun hooked to her belt that causes her left arm to have to swing out when she walks. Claire is wearing a black skirt and white blouse and her hair is pulled back from her face in a neat ponytail. She makes brief eye contact with someone in the front row, then turns her eyes away quickly as she stands behind the defense table.

The case is called, with all the particulars that go with it, and all the players in the little drama take a seat. The judge, an older man with dark reading glasses and a pinched, bird-like face, clears his throat and says, "Mr. Quinn. Do you have any final remarks regarding your client, Ms. Hanover, before I issue sentence?"

"Yes, Your Honor," the lawyer says, pushing himself up from the table and smoothing his hand over his tie. He's a tall, trim man in a three-piece suit that looks fitted and expensive. He gives Claire's shoulder a little squeeze before moving to stand at the end of the defense table.

"You Honor," he begins, and his voice is clear and steady. Drake tunes him out. He looks instead at Claire, who's seated as still as a statue, staring unblinking at her lawyer as he pleads her case for a light sentence. Drake knows she has a desire to martyr herself, that she feels as though she needs to be punished, but he's hoping she doesn't have to serve too much time.

That's why when Mr. Quinn asked him if he would be willing to testify in a deposition about the events of the night Mr. Bradford was shot, he had agreed. Claire may feel like she needs to be locked away for her sins, but Drake thinks she should have a chance to live her life.

"So, Your Honor," Mr. Quinn says, "while my client committed a crime, she did so under extreme duress, and has shown immense remorse. She is not a danger to society, nor does she have any prior history of violence or other crime. I ask you to impose the lightest possible sentence allowable by law. Thank you."

The prosecutor is given the chance to speak but declines.

"Very well," the judge says. "Then I am ready to pass sentence." He turns his eyes to Claire, gazing at her intently under his bushy gray eyebrows. "Ms. Hanover, if you would please stand."

Drake watches as she presses her palms flat on the table in front of her and pushes herself to her feet, facing the judge resolutely.

"Ms. Hanover," the judge says evenly. "After reviewing the evidence and various statements offered by Mr. Quinn to support your claim of heat of passion, I am inclined to believe his argument. The People have offered nothing to dispute the claim and your obvious show of remorse and lack of criminal history tell me that you are not a danger to society. Therefore, I sentence you to…"

Drake holds his breath, all other sound filtered out, like the world has been put on MUTE.

"…eighteen months. Suspended." The judge bangs the gavel once sharply against the bench. "You are free to go."

Drake feels his breath exit his lungs in a rush and a warmth spreads slowly beneath his skin. He looks at Claire, who's still standing as if paralyzed, staring at the judge in what Drake can only guess is a mixture of shock and disbelief. Two people stand up from the front row and reach for her, but it's the touch of her attorney's hand that seems to shake her from her reverie. Claire looks at him and Mr. Quinn nods, a wide smile of perfectly-capped teeth spread across his face. Then she turns to the two people behind her and almost falls into them, sinking into their embrace as she starts to cry.

After a few seconds, the bailiff whispers something to them and they gather their things and start to head down the middle aisle. Drake watches them as they walk towards the exit, not far from where he's sitting with his parents. The couple she's with are older and the resemblance between Claire and the woman tells him they're her parents. He wants to talk to her, but he doesn't want to disturb her, so he lets them exit without speaking.

"Let's go," he whispers to his parents and gets up as quietly as he can. The next case is already being called at the front of the room.

He pushes through the doors, his mom right behind him, and stops short. Claire is standing a few feet away, enclosed in her mother's embrace, nodding as her lawyer says something to her. Then her eyes catch his and she holds up her hand to silence Mr. Quinn.

Whispering something to her mom, she walks towards him. "Drake," she says, her small smile a bit fragile. Tears shine in her blue eyes, but they're clear and hold his unwaveringly. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm glad you get to go home," he says, feeling Audrey's hand slide across his back as she and Walter walk away a few feet to give Claire and him a moment.

She nods and he can see the sadness creep back into her eyes. "I'm not sure I deserve it."

Drake reaches out, touches her arm. "Yes, you do," he says.

She doesn't say anything for several seconds, just holds his gaze. "Thank you," she finally says.

Drake is taken aback. "For what?"

"For speaking up on my behalf. My lawyer told me how you didn't hesitate to talk about what happened that night."

Drake feels his throat constrict. "I wanted to help you," he manages to say. "You deserve to have a life."

She touches his face then, briefly, a gentle brush of her fingers against his cheek. "So do you," she says. She lets her hand drop, then says, "Promise me something."

"What?" he asks.

"Promise me you'll keep fighting. That you won't let him win." The words are spoken softly, but the voice behind them is fierce.

Drake can't say anything for a long moment, then nods. "I promise."

* * *

Three days after Nathan Bradford is released from the hospital, the District Attorney of San Diego County files eight charges against him, the most serious of which are kidnapping with intent to commit rape; assault with intent to commit rape; sexual battery; rape of a victim by force, violence, or fear of bodily injury; sodomy of a victim under 18 years of age; and stalking.

If convicted of all eight counts, he could receive a minimum of nearly 20 years in prison.

Ms. Ryan stands on the front stoop beneath the yellow glow of the porch light, framed by the darkening dusk sky behind her. She's declined Audrey's invitation inside, telling them she was just on her way home when she got the call telling her the grand jury just handed down the indictments. She decided to give them the good news in person.

"The police are on their way to his home right now to pick him up," she says.

"Thank you," Walter says.

"So," Drake says, his heart thudding against his ribs, "he's going to jail?"

Ms. Ryan looks at him across the threshold. "For now," she says. "At least until the bail hearing tomorrow."

"Then what?"

She flashes him a small, knowing smile. "Then his lawyer's going to try to convince the judge he should be allowed to go home where he can await trial in comfort."

Drake presses his lips into a thin line and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The idea of Mr. Bradford getting to live his life, even for a little while, without punishment doesn't seem fair. Anger steals his words and he can't speak.

Ms. Ryan seems to sense what he's thinking and nods reassuringly. "Don't worry, Drake. I'll do my best to see that doesn't happen. I'm going to argue he be held without bail until trial. If that doesn't work, I'll ask for a really high bail, something the defendant will have a hard time coming up with."

The defendant. Drake really likes the sound of that. "What happens next?"

The prosecutor smiles at him – a real smile that dances in her eyes. "For you? Not much right now. The trial's a long way off. We'll need you more as it approaches. Defense counsel will probably be contacting you." She looks at Audrey and Walter intently, first one then the other. "Whatever you do, do not talk to them without an attorney present. Do you understand me?"

The words sound a bit condescending, but they all know she's being serious. "Yes," both Audrey and Walter say.

"Good," she says. "That goes for the media, too. When this thing goes to trial, I'm afraid it'll be like a flame, drawing all the dirty little moths out of the woodwork. Say nothing. If they're camped out on your lawn, pretend they're gnomes. Ignore them. Direct all inquiries to your attorney."

Again, Audrey and Walter agree.

* * *

The bandages are gone now. So are the stitches. But the scars remain and Drake runs his fingers over them. The sensation is a strange combination of pain and numbness and the skin is soft and puckered. He still hides them away with long sleeves, even from his family.

Even now, few people know about his suicide attempt. He decided on his own to tell the guys, not wanting them to read about it in the newspaper or hear it on the news. They thought he was joking until he showed them the proof.

They had been shocked into silence until Devon had muttered, "Shit, man."

Scotty had actually cried – not snot-producing sobbing, but a quivering of his chin and a welling of his eyes that nearly induced the same reaction in Drake until he had threatened to throw him out of the band if he didn't stop. They had all laughed then and it was almost like it used to be. Almost.

He still hadn't found the nerve to tell them why, though. Perhaps he'll leave that one to the media.

He finishes drying off and hangs the towel on the rack next to the shower. He still wonders sometimes what it must've been like for Josh that night. He's never asked; he's not sure he wants to know. But he thinks about it anyway, trying to imagine what it would be like for _him_ if the tables were turned. Rarely does he get past the sight of Josh lying unconscious in the shower. That part bothers him a lot.

Putting on his pajamas, he stands in front of the sink and rubs away a circle of steam from the mirror with his sleeve, studying his reflection closely. The dark circles under his eyes aren't as pronounced as they used to be and he considers that a personal victory. He still has nightmares, but they're not as frequent. It's as if sharing his secrets with others has diluted his pain a little.

Diluted, but not dissolved. He still carries it with him everywhere and thinks he probably always will.

He brushes his teeth and heads to his bedroom. Josh turns his head to look at him when he walks through the door. "How was your shower?"

Drake shakes his head, smirking. "Wet," he answers. It's the same thing every time, but the routine is comforting.

Josh grins. "And hot?"

"Like a swimsuit model," Drake says, smiling, finishing the bit. He nods in the direction of the open laptop in front of Josh. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Oh, this?" Josh asks, folding the top of the computer closed quickly. "Nothin'."

But Drake knows. "Josh, leave it alone, man," he says. "You've been working on that thing since we were freshmen."

Josh looks sheepish. "I know. But it has to be _perfect._"

Drake rolls his eyes as he steps down into the room. "It's just a speech, man. No one's even gonna remember it. That's _if _they're even listening." He hears Josh's strangled snort of indignation and smiles.

"How can you say that?" Josh says. "Everyone will be listening. _Everyone._"

Drake turns, pasting a serious expression on his face. "Not everyone," he says, lifting one eyebrow suggestively. "I plan on taking my iBot."

Josh's mouth moves soundlessly. "My own brother. A traitor," he finally says, shaking his head. But Drake can see the laughter in his eyes.

"What you _should _do is write Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw a thank you note for moving to Zimbabwe and taking Mindy with them," Drake says. "Otherwise, you would never have been valedictorian."

"Yeah," Josh says, but then his face falls and he looks down at his half-closed computer. "You're probably right."

Drake instantly regrets his words. "Josh," he says, "forget I said that. I was just kidding. Really. You deserve it, man. I'm proud of you." He sighs heavily when Josh doesn't look up. "My foot sure does taste good," he says under his breath.

But Josh looks up and smiles at him. "You're proud of me?"

Drake's throat suddenly feels tight. "You know I am."

Josh's gaze fills with what Drake secretly refers to as his marshmallow look: a mushy sweetness that softens his eyes. "Aw, geez," Josh says, that sly little grin curving his lips.

"Yeah, so don't get all twitchy and start sweating tomorrow, alright?" Drake says, his voice casual, stopping the flow of emotion before it starts. "You know how you get."

Josh smirks at him. "No way, bro. I've got it under control. I'm just gonna picture everyone in their underwear." He waggles his eyebrows.

"_Not_ Maddie," Drake says, pointing his finger at Josh. "She's off-limits to your warped imagination."

Laughing, Josh relents, holding up his hands. "Alright, alright," he says. "I promise."

"That's better," Drake says, grinning back.

A moment passes between them.

"We should probably get some sleep," Drake says, breaking the silence. "Big day tomorrow."

Josh opens his laptop as he gives Drake a guilty look. "You go ahead," he says. "I'm just gonna make a few changes. You can turn out the light, though."

"Josh," Drake says, exasperated. He walks over to the far wall and flips off the overhead light. Then he stands and looks at his brother, whose face looks ghostly in the bluish light from the computer screen. "You'll be great. Don't worry about it."

One corner of Josh's mouth curves up into a half-smile. "Ten minutes," he says. "I swear."

Drake shakes his head. "Goodnight, Josh," he says, smiling. Walking over to his bed, he climbs up and crawls beneath the covers, rolling onto his stomach into his comfortable position. Burying his arms beneath his pillow, his head sinks into it as his eyelids close heavily.

He's on the edge of sleep when he hears Josh say, "Drake?"

"Yeah?" Drake says sleepily, not lifting his head off the pillow.

"I'm proud of you, too."

* * *

"My boys," Audrey says with pride when Drake and Josh emerge from the stairwell in full graduation regalia. "So handsome."

Drake laughs, cutting through the mush by saying, "Well, one of us is, at least." He casts a sidelong glance at Josh, who predictably protests.

"Relax, dude. I was referring to you," Drake says, batting his eyelashes at his brother facetiously.

Josh makes kissing noises in Drake's direction. "Why, thank you, dah-ling."

"Gag me," Megan says, rolling her eyes. But the smile on her face belies her sarcasm.

"Let's get a picture of the two graduates!" Walter exclaims, shaking a digital camera in the air.

As the two boys mug for the camera, Drake makes a mental note to download the pictures onto his phone. He wants to remember this moment.

* * *

As the principal, Mr. Henderson, drones on about the brightness of the future, Drake scans the sea of blue in front of him. Scotty, who's two rows up, has taped three drumsticks to his cap in the shape of a pyramid despite the principal's warning not to alter their caps or gowns in any way.

"Dude," he'd said to Drake in the parking lot, "I gotta stand out for my granny. She doesn't see too good, you know, and I want her to be able to pick me out."

Drake smiles at the thought now because right before they went inside, Josh's Grammy had tried to convince him to paste a big "#1" on his cap. But, Josh being Josh, he had refused.

The feel of his phone vibrating inside his pocket startles him and he digs in his pocket for it just as Mr. Henderson introduces Eric Blonnowitz and Craig Ramirez to the audience. The two actually tied for salutatorian and Josh told him they were planning some sort of extravagant nerd-a-palooza in lieu of a speech.

His heart doesn't freeze in his chest anymore when his phone rings; he's got a new phone with a new number. His old phone was confiscated by the investigators working for the district attorney's office and will be used as evidence in Mr. Bradford's trial, which Ms. Ryan said will be starting in less than a month.

The screen on his phone tells him he's got a new text message and when he opens his mailbox, a slow smile spreads across his face. It's from Maddie.

"blah blah blah"

Drake stifles a laugh, then looks up at the stage, where Craig and Eric are regaling the audience with their rendition of Baz Luhrmann's "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)", complete with props and pantomime.

Rolling his eyes, Drake types back, "u r not as fat as u imagine"

Several seconds later, Maddie responds. ":P!! floss"

Drake: "stretch"

Maddie: "sing"

Drake: "get plenty of calcium"

Maddie: "do 1 thing everyday that scares u"

Drake doesn't respond to that one for a long moment, then finally types back, "i love you", being careful to spell the words correctly so there isn't any confusion about his meaning. He stares at the words as he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. _This is it,_ he thinks. _This is today's scary thing._ He closes his eyes as he presses the SEND button.

It seems to take forever for her to respond and the breath he's been holding burns in his lungs. Finally, his phone buzzes in his hand and his eyes fly open. He realizes his fingers are trembling as he opens the message.

"i love you, too"

Drake finally lets out his breath as he feels his mouth curve into a goofy smile.

"But trust us on the sunscreen," Craig and Eric say in unison in the background.

* * *

The second Josh walks up to the podium, Drake gets a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. It's something in the intense way Josh meets his eyes across the wide expanse and the flicker of something unknown across Josh's face that makes Drake uneasy.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Josh says into the microphone after adjusting it to his height. He nervously clears his throat. Picking up the neatly typed pages of his speech, he holds them up. "I've been working on this speech since I was fourteen. I've agonized over every word, researched inspirational quotes, searched for the perfect anecdotes. I've gone from trying to be funny to trying to be motivational to trying to be a mixture of both. I was still working on it last night." He pauses and catches Drake's eyes again briefly before turning them back to the audience. "But you know what? I'm not going to read it." Then he does something that shocks Drake into total stillness – he tears the pages in half and drops them to the stage.

"I was going to talk about how the future is ours and how it's up to us to change the world. About how great leaders are made, not born, and how we all have the potential to be great leaders. But as I was sitting up here, I realized that none of that really matters. Not because it's not important. Because it is and I absolutely believe every word of it." He pauses, takes a breath, and meets Drake's eyes across the room. "But if there's one thing I've learned this year, it's that life is the most important thing of all. Without it, there's nothing. It's the most valuable, the most…precious thing we have and we need to cherish it. My brother taught me that."

Drake feels his heart thud against his chest, but doesn't move a muscle.

"Drake," Josh says, and suddenly it feels like there's no one else but them in the room. "It's been a tough year. And it's not over yet. But we've made it through so far and we'll make it through the rest." His voice cracks a little on the last couple words and he smiles. "I know you're probably gonna kill me for embarrassing you like this, but I'm willing to risk it," he says, laughing. "Because I just want you to know how much I admire you."

Drake's throat burns and he bites the inside of his bottom lip to keep the tears from falling.

"You did it, man," Josh says. "You made it."

Drake works his right index finger behind the knot of his tie and tugs on it irritably the second he walks out of the courtroom. He's just finished testifying in _The People of the State of California v. Nathan Elliot Bradford_ and feels completely wrung out.

It's been a very long two days.

His family, who'd been waiting for him in the hallway at his request, stands when they see him and he responds to the question in his mom's eyes before she can put a voice to it.

"I'm fine," he says.

"You look exhausted," Walter says.

"I am," Drake says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I think I could sleep for about a week."

"Do you want to go home?"

"In a minute," Drake says, nodding. "I need to use the restroom first."

His dress shoes click against the hard floor as he walks to the men's room. Pushing open the heavy, wood-paneled door, he's greeted by the strong smell of bleach and industrial cleanser. The air conditioner hums noisily inside the high-ceilinged room and the sound of the stall door closing echoes loudly off the hard surfaces.

He doesn't really need to go; he just wants a few minutes to himself. Sitting down on the toilet, he rests his head in his hands and closes his eyes.

It was weird sitting on the witness stand, answering question after question the way he'd been instructed by Ms. Ryan. "Be specific," she had told him. "Only answer what you're being asked. No more, no less."

She had been right about the tenacity of the defense attorney. He'd come on strong, trying to intimidate Drake with his voice and stature. But Drake had one thing on his side: the truth.

"Just tell the truth," Ms. Ryan had told him. "It's our best weapon."

There was a lot of evidence and none of it seemed to help the defense in the least. The prosecution had taken the two cell phones – his and Mr. Bradford's – and had constructed a transcript using the various text messages, complete with dates and times. The picture it painted was an ugly one.

Then there was the lone voicemail Drake had left once upon a time after Mr. Bradford's very first text message. It had never been erased.

The most damning piece of evidence, however, was the recording Drake had made the night of the shooting. Drake had had to listen to it word by word during his testimony in order to corroborate its contents. Ms. Ryan had even called Claire Hanover to the stand so she could corroborate the part of the conversation she had overheard in the parking lot – the most crucial part, as it turned out.

His testimony had ended with Ms. Ryan, on re-direct, asking him, "Once more for the record. Is the man who raped you in this courtroom today?"

"Yes," Drake had said.

"Please point him out to the jury."

Drake had looked at the jury for a moment – eight women and four men, a combination Ms. Ryan had said was favorable for the prosecution – and then pointed to Nathan Bradford, who was sitting at the defense table in a neat gray suit, looking back at him evenly. Drake had wanted to see him in his prison clothes. "He's sitting over there," he'd answered. "In the gray suit."

Sighing, he sits up. He really is tired, all the way down to his bones.

Standing, he exits the stall and walks to the row of sinks, bending to splash water on his face. Drying his face with a wad of paper towels, he goes out to join his family.

He's done all he can. Now all he can do is wait.

* * *

He never thought it would ever happen, but the guitar feels awkward in his hands. Ever since his conversation with Megan weeks ago, he's been afraid to pick it up, afraid to find out he's lost the ability to play.

But the wait is killing him. It's been three days since the case went to the jury. _Three days._ And still no word.

So he's decided to try to fill the void with music, like he used to.

Tentatively, he strums a chord. It sounds a little a little flat and he tightens one of the strings by turning its tuning peg a tiny bit. He tries the chord again. It sounds perfect, the sound resonating richly from the instrument.

Drake feels himself smile.

* * *

The last strains of the song dissipate into the warm night air and Drake opens his eyes. He's spent the last several hours working on it, skipping dinner, tuning out the rest of the world. The muscles in his hands and arms ache, but it's a good kind of ache. It's the kind of ache that reminds him he's still alive.

He sighs and picks up the phone, which lies face-up on the table in front of him. Pressing it to his ear, he can hear her breathe.

"Well?" he finally asks when she doesn't speak.

"Oh, Drake…" she says.

Drake smiles. "Is that 'Oh, Drake, you're so awesome' or 'Oh, Drake, that's eight minutes of my life I'll never get back'?"

"It's beautiful," Maddie says.

"Glad you think so," he says. "'Cause I wrote it for my girlfriend. Do you think she'll like it?"

He can almost hear her eyes roll. "I think she'll love it," she says.

A moment of silence passes between them. Then Drake says, "It's not the one I played at the mall."

"It's better," she says.

"I even had my eyes closed," Drake says.

Maddie laughs. "Good. 'Cause that's how I imagined you playing it."

"I wanted to play it for you in person, but I couldn't wait."

"That's alright," she says. "It's kinda romantic like this."

"Romantic, huh? Well, I try."

She laughs and then the sound fades away, leaving only the soft static on the line and the sound of their breathing.

"I was so scared, you know," Drake finally says, "that I wouldn't be able to play anymore."

"I know," she says.

"I thought that what I'd done…"

"But it didn't," she says, interrupting him. "It didn't."

Another moment passes and he pushes a breath roughly past his lips. "This waiting is killing me," he says, frustrated.

"They'll find him guilty, Drake."

He wants to believe her, but the little voice inside his head – the one telling him that Mr. Bradford, after everything, is going to get away with it – won't shut up. "What if they don't?" he asks, his voice tight.

* * *

In the end, the jury decides there isn't enough evidence to prove the kidnapping charge, but Nathan Bradford is convicted on the other seven counts, including rape. If it wasn't for Audrey and Walter holding him up, Drake is sure he would collapse into a puddle on the floor.

* * *

A week later, Drake's wish to see Mr. Bradford in prison garb is fulfilled when they all gather back in the courtroom for sentencing. A week in the general prison population has changed the man in profound ways. He looks pale, the dark circles under his eyes making them look hollow. His bright orange jumpsuit hangs off his body, whether because he's lost weight or because it's a size too big, Drake doesn't know.

But most of all, Nathan Bradford looks _small._ It amazes Drake, looking at him now, that he was ever afraid of this man. But then he remembers the strength in the man's body and the feral look in his eyes and realizes the man standing defeated in the front of the room has a completely different side to him. A dangerous side.

When the judge asks if the defendant has anything to say before sentence is passed, Mr. Bradford mumbles, "I'm terribly sorry for what I've done and if I could take it back, I would," in a voice devoid of emotion and without making eye contact with anyone.

The judge nods, says, "Very well," and passes on his sentence.

Fifteen years.

* * *

Drake gazes impassively at the man sitting across from him. He has skin the color of white coffee and kind brown eyes that have seen the darkness in people yet are still compassionate. The top two buttons of his blue button-down hang open and his left ankle is crossed over his right knee in a casual pose that Drake knows is meant to make his patients feel more comfortable.

It works. At least for him.

Dr. Elias Allon smiles slightly, his eyes drifting to the scars on Drake's exposed wrists. They're a dark pink color, not old enough to have faded yet to a shiny white, and they march along his skin like trails of fire ants. It's the first time Drake hasn't had them covered up in all the time he's been coming to see him.

"What?" Drake asks him, mirroring the man's expression, a tentative smile tweaking his lips. They're sitting in matching overstuffed armchairs the color of dust. The patch of sunlight on the carpet has shifted in the last 45 minutes, the edge of it now just touching the toes of Drake's boots. He's been coming to see the psychologist for nearly three months now.

Dr. Allon looks up, meeting Drake's eyes across the small expanse. "Have you ever read _The Scarlet Letter_?"

The question seems odd. "Huh?"

The psychologist's smile widens. "Not much for the classics?"

Drake shrugs. "Not much for books."

Dr. Allon looks at him appraisingly for a moment, leaning back in his chair and tenting his fingers below his chin. "It's about a woman who has committed adultery and is forced to wear a scarlet 'A' on her chest as punishment."

"So?"

The doctor meets his eyes. "She has to display it for all the world to see, as a constant reminder of her sin." He lowers his hands and rests them on the armrests, his long, slender fingers curving over the ends.

Drake just looks at him as a tiny seed of understanding begins to germinate in the back of his mind. "Everyone stares at her," he says, understanding. He draws his arms in, folding them across his stomach. The movement is involuntary, like breathing.

Dr. Allon takes a moment before answering. "That's the point," he says. "To shame her."

Drake just nods, biting the inside of his cheek.

The dynamic has shifted into something more intimate. They're not talking about the book anymore. The doctor studies him for a long moment, his brown eyes moving from Drake's face to his hands and back again. "You're not hiding them anymore," the doctor says.

Drake turns his hands over in a gesture of nonchalance, but the movement is careful and practiced. His scars flash defiantly, stark against the pale skin of his wrists. "It doesn't bother me." The words are deliberate, spoken in a voice tinged with defiance.

"What doesn't?"

"The staring," Drake says. "People can't help themselves."

"Why do you think that is?" Dr. Allon asks him, tilting his head slightly.

Drake answers immediately. "Because it comforts them."

"What do you mean?"

But Drake thinks the doctor knows exactly what he means. He sighs, indulging the man by answering anyway. "People look at me, they see the scars, they think, 'Wow, he's nuts. Look at what he did to himself. I could _never_ do anything like that.' " A small smirk twists his lips. "People like knowing there's someone out there crazier than they are."

Dr. Allon can't help but smile a little. "I had a professor in grad school that used to say, 'Luckily for us, everyone's a little crazy.' " His eyes sparkle as he lifts his hands from the chair, then drops them again. "It's good for business."

"I bet." Drake's smiling as he gazes out the window, but the expression slowly dissolves away after a few seconds. The doctor's office is on the fourth floor of a highrise and Drake watches a bird fly past with what looks like torn paper clutched in its claws. Nesting material. Life goes on. It amazes him how so much life can thrive in the city.

Drake can feel the man's eyes on him, but it no longer makes him uncomfortable. Months of calm patience have made Drake feel safe in the doctor's presence. "I've got nothing to be ashamed of," he says, turning his eyes back to the doctor and meeting the man's gaze unflinchingly.

"You're right," Dr. Allon says. "You don't."

"Something happened to me," Drake continues, his voice gaining strength. He unfolds his arms and rests them once again on the arms of the plush chair, plucking a piece of lint off the fabric and rolling it between his finger and thumb before flicking it away. "Something bad." A hard, resolute edge creeps into his eyes. "But I survived," he says, his voice softer, huskier. He holds the doctor's gaze for a long, silent moment. "I survived."

THE END

* * *

_I know, I know. Sappy, huh? Well, I thought since I'd put the boys through so much, I'd give them a little happiness. I think they deserve it, don't you?_

_Please review one final time and let me know what you thought of the ending. Thank you!_


End file.
